Autonomy
by lilyvonschtup
Summary: Not my first endeavor into writing, but first fanfic. Original character works with the lab outside forensics and finds herself bonding with the crew, and Grissom in particular. Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Joyceanna. Now finished! Feedback?
1. Part 1

** AN: I don't own the characters...except for Vanessa. She's all mine. And my humblest apologies to the ACLU and Cesar Chavez. If I was getting paid for this I'd have a much better apartment.  
**

** Part One Late February 2005**

**Chapter One: Pawns**

Night had long since closed over the city, but the woman in the break room would never have known it. She'd been there for at least ten hours, tapping away at the key board of her lap top, music roaring over her headphones, oblivious to any activity around her. She was currently compiling information to develop a union contract under which the Las Vegas crime lab could operate along with adjunct law enforcement agencies. Once this was done, it would be on to staff interviews; find out what the people who worked there felt they needed. And then, on to drafting a proposal so that union lawyers could argue over the new contract.

In all honesty, she didn't really care to return to her "crash pad." She'd been rooming with two other people, since this was a temporary assignment until her contract with a community outreach program began. Her "roomies" were...younger...than her. Physically and socially. Not that she would be considered a prude, but she valued her space, and it seemed that her space was subject to constant violation with these two. However, the space had been cheap and she knew they didn't mean anything by it, so she spent long hours at work to maintain her patience.

She frowned as she looked over one of the files in front of her, tapping her pen on the table. _Its been **how**__long since this person took time off? _She could hardly believe her eyes. She flipped the file back over to look at the name. Gil Grissom. _He's either very dedicated or very stupid, _she thought. Shaking her head, she moved on to another file.

Next one. Catherine Willows. Single mother. Put in for a promotion to supervise day shift. Got swing. "Mmm-hmmm." She said through pursed lips.

The more she read, the more she got the feeling that grave yard shift has been screwed with. It reeked of interdepartmental politics -- something she never had any patience for. Disgusted with what she'd read in files, she took off her headphones and got up to make more coffee, trying to figure out if she'd read enough and should just launch into interviews or if she should keep studying the files.

By the time the coffee maker started dripping, she'd decided on a double pronged attack. She had the basic information on graveyard staff, so she could begin their interviews that evening, provided there was a lull in activity. Depending on what she found out, she could keep fishing in the files for further details. Looking at her clock, it was about time for the people in question to start arriving. She cleaned up her area, stashed individual files into a plastic carrier, and deposited her compiled notes into her lap top bag. Working on a piece of scrap paper, she started outlining the names of the staff and which questions she's going to ask.

The first person to enter the break room, promptly at ten pm, on the dot, was a tall man, with receding brown hair. He poured a cup of coffee and gave her a smile that didn't quite hit his eyes. Sticking out a hand, he introduced himself: "You must be Vanessa. I'm the administrative supervisor, Conrad Ecklie. I'm glad to have you working for us."

His hand shake was a lot like his smile, plastic and lifeless. She repressed an urge to yank her hand away and wipe it on her pants, and forced a smile. "It's good to meet you. I hope you don't mind my holing up in your break room. I find that it helps the process if I 'enculturate' myself to the people I'm working with and their surroundings."

Her emphasis on the fact that she was working _with_ the people in the lab, and not _for _ the administration, did not go unnoticed. "I'm sure whatever you come up with will be just fine." Another half smile and he left the room. She had a feeling in the base of her gut that she'd just met one of the instrumental parties in the dirty dealing she was just reading about. Something about his false manner reminded her of too many 'good ol' boy' politicians she'd dealt with. The type who would slap you on the back with a knife in their hand.

She sat back down with her own cup of coffee and tried to center herself in her surroundings. The white noise of a dozen conversations taking place in the hallway as some people left and others came in, buzzing phones from the reception desk, heels clicking on linoleum. Fluorescent lighting which sometimes served to better highlight shadows than provide illumination. A veritable labyrinth of offices, evidence rooms, labs of all sorts. She saw a center of activity. This was where lawyers, cops, coroners, suspects, and victims all came together.

It wasn't long before another man veritably bounced into the break room, head bobbing along with whatever was playing on his I-pod. He walked quickly up to the coffee pot and gave it a startled look when it was full. He shook his head, picked up the pot and headed to the sink. "Why can't dayshift ever clean up after themselves?"

"Hey," she started toward him, putting her hand on his arm. "I just made that!" She said a little louder, hoping he would hear her over his headphones.

He turned and jumped, "you're new here. I didn't hear that they were hiring anyone else," he recovered his 'cool' and went on, "maybe I can give you a guided tour later."

"I'm not officially 'hired.' Not for the lab, anyway. I'm here to work on a proposal for a union contract for the staff at the crime lab, so I'm here temporarily while I'm waiting for another contract to kick in." She told him, smiling a little. He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed -- hair mussed, loose fitting button down shirt, wrinkled jacket. He reminded her of people she'd known in college, right to his eyes, which held an enthusiasm that was almost contagious.

"This the stuff out of the can in the cupboard?" He asked, indicating the coffee pot he still held in his hand.

"Yeah, it was all I could find. Was there something else I should have used?"

"I have my own personal stash, but I don't usually leave it here," he said as he poured sugar into his cup. "Sounds like complicated work. What contract are you waiting on?"

"I'll be working with a youth violence program downtown," she replied.

"You just a glutton for punishment?" He joked, taking his first sip.

"I've been told. It'll blend nicely with the curriculum I'm hoping to start at the University," she concluded. "So is this pretty much a main pathway here in the lab?"

"What do you mean?" His eyebrows lowered.

"Well, I don't want to be in the way, but I also want to be somewhere that I can run into just about everyone pretty routinely..." she left it hanging.

"Yeah, you should be in the right place then. Are you sure you don't want that tour?" He asked.

She took a deep breath, "then this is gonna be my office for a few weeks. Fundamentally I'm cheap labor. And for the record, I'd love a tour. Whenever you have time."

Greg leaped right into the topic. "Is there anything else I can help you out with?"

"Nothing yet -- I've been doing preliminary research most of the day. Is there a good place to grab a late dinner around here for cheap?"

It was Greg's turn to laugh as he stood up. "Just about any of the tourist traps on The Strip will fit that. I'd try the deli down the street, though. The food's a lot better and you won't be tripping over vacationers."

She smiled in return, and made note of his suggestion as he left the room to start his shift. "Hey," she called after him, "who do you think I should talk to first?"

"What, am I chopped liver?" he teased, "I'd figure out who's having a slow night and start there, or maybe I can help you hook up with everyone for breakfast..." he left the sentence hanging.

"For a price?" She responded.

"Well...I might want you to keep making the coffee around here. This is the first drinkable pot I've had without bringing my own in," he laughed and headed out the door.

She couldn't help chuckling over the exchange after he left. She instantly formulated a word association to help her remember which face went to the name: 'Greg'arious. Which he certainly was. Something told her he used to get in trouble in science classes because his curiosity and enthusiasm ran away with him, leading him to blow things up and make smoke bombs and such. On the same note, he was probably perpetually five steps ahead of his class mates. Like those kids in the movie "Real Genius," manufacturing ice skating rinks in the hallways and developing weapons grade lasers.

She sat back down at the table and gave the files in their plastic box a disgusted look, opting instead to put the headphones back on and listen to something loud and obnoxious while she set her thoughts down on a clean, yellow legal pad.

Gil Grissom stepped into the break room, surprised to see a stranger sitting at the table, apparently absorbed in thought. "And you would be..." even if he hadn't left the sentence hanging, it wouldn't have been a question.

"Mmph," she responded, not looking up. She was stretched out with her feet propped up on the chair opposite her at the small table, staring absently at her notebook. She was putting together common threads from the files she'd been going through. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright in her chair, and tossed the pad down on the table while almost simultaneously reaching for the files in their plastic holder. She rapidly looked through each one, knowing by now which pages she needed. Most, nearly all, were signed by the same person. She was becoming less impressed with Conrad Ecklie by the second.

"Hey. You're in my lab. Why." The voice cut through growling electric guitars and complex percussion, but only faintly -- hardly enough to break her concentration. Instead, she impatiently waved him off, indicating that he was interrupting something of great importance.

"Figures. That son of a bitch." She mumbled as she flipped through files. That signature kept popping up. _Mental note: Conrad Ecklie equals road block, _she thought.

She jumped when she felt the head phones slide from her head. "Who's a son of a bitch?" a man she didn't recognize asked her.

"Nothing..." she recovered lamely. He looked at the file she held -- with his name on it.

"I'm a son of a bitch. How did you arrive at that conclusion?" A lifted eyebrow neatly masked his amusement.

"I don't think so, unless you prove otherwise. I was thinking about something else. This is you?" She asked, indicating the file she held.

"Yes. And you would be..."

"Vanessa Goldman. I was sent over to draw up the proposal for the new union contract," she got up to refresh her coffee, surprised to find the pot already nearly empty. "Can I get you a cup?" she asked over her shoulder.

He shrugged, so she poured a fresh cup and took the dregs for herself, then set about to brewing a fresh pot. "Eventually, I'm going to need to meet with the entire staff for the graveyard shift. Once individually for interviews, and another time collectively to go over my work before it gets sent to the lawyers."

Flopping back down in her chair, she asked, "as the graveyard supervisor, what, in your opinion, is the best way to make that happen?"

"In my opinion, I wouldn't do your job for all the money on earth," he said under his breath.

She caught his mumbled comment. Annoyance flickered in her eyes, and concern wrinkled her forehead. "Why is that?" It came out with a tenacity she hadn't meant to show. Yet, after drawing conclusions from the files, and his comment, she was beginning to feel a fight brewing.

He started slightly, figuring she hadn't heard that, then smiled a little, "I've been told I should be more politic. I'll let you arrive at your own conclusions, and in the mean time, if there is a lag in the work load, you can do your interviews." With that, he left the room.

She watched him leave with more than a little frustration. He was thinking something -- she had a feeling he could back her hunch about Ecklie. Well, every office had a gossip mill. She just had to find out who was at the root of it.

She looked at the clock on the lower right hand corner of her computer again. Eleven at night, which meant she'd been in the break room for twelve, and had been up an extra six, bringing her up to a grand total of eighteen hours for the day. Another couple hours and maybe...just maybe...she would go home.

The weekend at the lab was hectic. The cases weren't overly complicated, but they were prolific. Vanessa found herself checking the windows for a full moon -- the volume of assaults and burglaries was stunning. It was like the entire city had flipped out at once.

Finally, on Tuesday, the staff seemed to have all the loose ends tied up and the pace slowed some. Enough for her to at least sit down with people to discuss working conditions and start compiling their input for her proposal. Her first 'victim' was Catherine Willows. She'd become familiar with the crew and their habits, and had decided a straight forward approach would be best.

"What would you do to improve your working conditions?"

She laughed a little, "I've already been over this in my evaluation. I'd like to not work so many triples. I'd like to be able to take time off. I'd like to work days. I have a daughter, but I never see her. Grave is better for that than swing, but still..." she let the sentence hang.

"I noticed how many long shifts you guys pull. Why is that? What are the other shifts doing?" Vanessa asked.

"I don't think its a matter of the other shifts not pulling their load, but the graveyard team is where the most experience is, so when the others get in over their heads, that's where they go," she was tip toeing around something.

Vanessa pursed her lips. First the supervisor, now Catherine. Something was up and no one wanted to talk about it. "Look, this conversation doesn't leave this room, and last I checked, Ecklie hasn't wiretapped the place, so you can speak freely. What's going on?" Her last question held a note of exasperation. All she'd gotten from files were frustrating hints and hunches that something wasn't fitting together like it ought to, although she couldn't pull a single piece of information to conclusively back her feeling.

Both of the red-head's eyebrows shot up. "Why do you say that?"

Vanessa heaved a sigh. _Best just throw your cards on the table with this one, _she thought. "Is there a lack of training on the other shifts that is preventing people from moving ahead like they ought to? Is there something supervisors could do? What? Here's the deal. I'm not impressed with Ecklie already, so if he's at the bottom of something, let me know."

Catherine leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, "so you're acquainted with the political arm of the lab? Okay, he could be a little less stingy with sending people to seminars and conferences. If he didn't have such a beef with Grissom, maybe he could let people from other shifts work graveyard a few times so they'd get more experience. He wonders why the other shifts aren't as tight as graveyard; personally I think its because he spends most of his time nit-picking the rule books and not enough time giving people what they need to excel. That was his excuse for breaking up the team, but it was a political maneuver. Although I have noticed, since you showed up, he's been a little more attentive to the rules he should be following..." she laughed.

"How's that?" Vanessa continued, eyebrows dipping in consternation.

"Well, he's supposed to spend time on all shifts. But he avoids grave like the plague. Partially because he's avoiding Grissom, partially because he hates the hours."

"You've mentioned animosity towards Grissom twice now. What's up? Does he let personal problems interfere with his work or yours?"

"Oh, he's all politics. He'd rather play games than be productive. He's already looking at getting out of his office and running for Sheriff in a couple years. He and Gil have never gotten along, but once Gil got promoted, he challenged Ecklie on a couple cases, which only made things worse. I've told him he needs to play a little smarter with Ecklie, but its like talking to a brick wall," she shook her head, "he just doesn't have it in him, and to be honest with you, I'm a little worried that the whole thing is wearing him out."

Vanessa paused to make some notes, "so you would say most of the problems shifts are encountering are coming from the administrative level, rather than poor shift management skills?"

"By and large. I can speak for graveyard...Gil isn't perfect; he can be a pain in the ass to work with. But he's trained one of the best teams out there," there was a note of pride in her voice, "it'd be rough if he left."

"Can you think of any instances where your colleagues were put into unsafe working conditions or treated unethically?"

"Unsafe working conditions? That's a nightly experience!" she joked, "I know what you mean. Nothing we aren't trained or prepared for, for the most part. As for unethical. Nothing overt. Its just that the supervisors try to treat crew like they are human beings where as the administration treats them like cogs in a machine. I think you'd find that anywhere." Her pager went off and she looked down to check the ID. "I gotta run to check on some DNA," she said, getting up, "did you need anything else?"

Vanessa's tone was grim, "no, I'm afraid not. Thank you, though." She shuffled the papers in front of her on the table and prepared to conduct her next interview.

Warrick Brown was the next member of the team to step through the door. Vanessa caught him on his way to the fridge, "you got a few minutes?"

"Sure. Vanessa, right? What's up?" he replied over his shoulder and turned back to poking around in the fridge. "Awww, ugh," he grimaced.

"What's wrong? Something go bad?"

"No. Bugs. I don't know what its gonna take to convince him to get his own damn fridge," the voice was muffled as it emanated from the appliance. He turned around, "what can I do for you?"

"I just have a few questions. To start with, what would you do to improve the working conditions around here?"

"Well, you just heard part of it. There's gotta be a health code violation in that somewhere. Gris has got to start keeping his experiments to himself," he started. "Fewer triples would be a good start. After a while you just can't think straight was split up there for a while. That was an arbitrary political maneuver if I ever saw one."

"Really?" Vanessa prompted, hoping he'd be more open than Catherine. She was going to get really tired of having to pull teeth to get information.

"Things got ugly when the team was split up. I wasn't in the room when the decision was made, but I know Sophia -- she was acting supervisor on days then -- was pissed when she didn't get the spot permanent. Ecklie jumped every member of the team individually and twisted what they said to make the shift look bad, and when Sophia wouldn't make her evaluation match his opinion, he demoted her. And seriously, in spite of the bugs, Gris is a great supervisor," he explained, then looked at her critically, "who gets to see this report of yours?"

"Administration, meaning a copy will go to Ecklie and to the Sheriff. Then shift supervisors and union reps, who are typically one and the same. The only thing they do is sign off that they've seen the document and it gets sent off to the lawyers, who hash it out from there. Rest assured that the information I base my conclusions on will remain confidential," she responded.

He nodded, looking somewhat satisfied, "but the lawyers representing the administration are going to tear it to shreds?"

"That's why I'm going to throw together an entire wish list, and leave a few things in there that I know will probably get slashed. But, if the union lawyers can use it for a stall tactic, the bulk of the document should make it through unscathed. It has to be signed, sealed, and delivered in three months from when I started, about five weeks ago," she replied with a conspiratorial smile. "Ecklie seems to be under the mistaken impression that I'm going to compose a document representing what he wants instead of what you guys need. And he can go right on thinking that until I'm finished and it lands on his desk."

"You really think you can play ball with him?" Warrick asked cynically.

"I'm sure I can," she replied with a stubborn set to her jaw. The CSI didn't look entirely convinced -- but then, she figured, he probably wasn't convinced of anything he couldn't see.

She finished the interview quickly and waited for the next person to buzz through the break room.

"Well, speak of the devil!" she laughed when the supervisor stepped through the door. "Close the door behind you, we need to talk."

He looked surprised, almost like he wanted to bolt, but quickly recovered and closed the door. "Something you need?"

"I just have a few questions," she was beginning to feel like a broken record. _Two down, four to go!_ she cheered herself on mentally. "Do I look like I'm gonna bite? Grab some coffee and sit down, for crying out loud."

"Yes ma'am," he replied.

"Now, there's no need to be smarmy about it. Keep it up and I might bite, after all," she teased. He laughed uneasily, still looking at her warily as he sat down. "So, can you think of any way you'd improve working conditions in the lab?"

"Well, Catherine should get days," he started, "if that happened, someone else on swing could move up to take her place, but I don't see Ecklie giving her days like she wants," he frowned, "they could stand to offer better counseling services for people who have related to the job -- Nick comes to mind. Sara, too, but in a different way..."

Vanessa cut him off, "that's all well and good, but how would _you_ improve your own working conditions. I'm going to talk to all of them, so be selfish for once. What would you like to see?" she leaned forward on the table, resting her chin in her left hand, waiting for him to respond.

He was silent for a long while, going to great length to avoid the gray eyes that were trying to bore into him. "I'd like less paperwork. I'd like more time to attend and give seminars," he shifted, "but that's not the point. None of that is going to happen. As Catherine is all too happy to point out, that's why I get paid the 'big bucks.'"

"Keep going. In a criminalistic utopia, what would you want?" she pressed.

"A criminalistic utopia? You mean a perfect world where crime still exists?" he couldn't help laughing.

"Well, if there were no crime, you would probably have a much different job, and we'd never have this conversation. So, yes, in a utopian world that still has crime labs, what would you want?"

"I'd like for the team to have the resources to advance the way they need to. It would be nice to take more than a couple days off without having to dump everything on Catherine," he mused, not realizing that he was still considering the needs of his crew before his own, even if indirectly. "It would be nice to not have to worry about inter-office politics, and watch every word I say, but again, its not gonna happen," he insisted.

She nodded, formulating her next question, watching him look at her notebook with unabashed curiosity. "Analyzing my handwriting?" she joked.

"No, that takes place down the hall," he returned, finishing his coffee.

"I don't know how to break this to you, but I'm going to make it my business to see that you and your staff get everything you need. I don't like what I'm hearing about how the team was broken up. I've already gotten the impression that your people don't think I can out-politic Ecklie and the Sheriff, but I'm telling you I can and I will, because I've done it before," she returned to the subject at hand.

The stubborn set returned to her jaw, her eyes hardened, and her normally low voice dropped to almost tenor, all telling him that she was perfectly capable of doing exactly as she said. It was an image that seemed to be at odds with her small stature. He remembered something his Uncle had told him once: "big explosions come in small packages," referring to just this kind of woman (in that case, his Aunt). Vanessa was, for all intents and purposes, cut from the same cloth as many of the women in his family, he realized.

"I shouldn't have been so specific, but in the end, those are the two I'm going to be going up against, right?" she asked.

"You have my sympathy, for what its worth," he replied with a nod.

"What are the chances they're going to argue with me, even though they're just supposed to sign the damn thing and hand it off to the lawyers?"

"Honestly? Fairly good. Its hard to tell how much they'll drag their feet, but I'm sure they will. What's good for the people in the field isn't necessarily good for the administration."

"Well, the final product is for the lawyers to argue over expensive lunches on the tax payers' dime. The administration can take any of their demands to the lab's lawyers, or to their own union lawyers, but my proposal is hands off and I intend to keep it that way. Listen to me," she shook her head, "I probably sound like the pushiest bitch on the planet!"

He was silent again, studying her body language. Nothing struck him as anything other than genuine about her. For some reason, that surprised him -- he'd expected a polished politician to be doing this job. "Greg mentioned that you're going to be working downtown after this...doing what?"

_Aha! Head of the gossip mill! _she thought triumphantly as she began her reply, "I'm stepping up to lead a youth organization that's trying to reduce violence in key neighborhoods. At the same time, I'll be taking the plans and projects I develop to UNLV, along with reports on success or failure, and helping them re-evaluate elements of their social science department. I'd like to get a program going that would encourage students to break out of the ivory tower and practice the stuff they read in text books. Of course, most of the old school folks don't like that," she chuckled, "but, they usually conveniently forget the fact that the players in Plato's Republic were drunk. Ideas for their own sake are nothing more than mental masturbation. Its not enough to sit back and complain and theorize about social problems, we have to train a new generation to get out there and do something about them... I'm sorry -- I just got on my soap box there," she laughed at herself a little bit.

"Well, if the lab can support you in any way, let me know," he replied.

She gave herself a mental shake to jog her mind back to the job at hand, and the interview finished quickly. She let her mind wander and her eyes followed him down the hall to his office.

A female voice jerked her back to her senses, "I saw that!" It was Catherine.

"Saw what?" Vanessa asked, slightly shaken.

"You were looking at his ass," the other woman teased, sitting down at the table with a carton of Chinese food. "Don't deny it," she laughed.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Vanessa replied, busying herself with her notes.

Her only reply was a snort of laughter, "so how are interviews going?"

"Three down, and I'm already starting to feel like if I hear myself asking those same questions again, I'm going to beat my head on a wall." She glanced around at the papers that had started collecting on the table, threatening to take over the surface, and sighed. "Maybe I'll finish tomorrow. What time is it?"

Catherine looked at her watch, "almost four-thirty. Why?"

"Just wondering how long I've been here and if I'm tired enough to go back to the crash pad yet."

Vanessa got up and stretched, walked over to the couch, and sat down. _I'll be fine if I just don't look at that stuff for a little while,_ she thought, leaning back into the cushions. She didn't even hear the other woman leave -- she was already asleep.

**Chapter Two: Time Off**

It was about a week later that her room mates were jumping all over her last nerve. Technically, she was supposed to be taking a day off -- strict orders to do nothing from a friend of hers, Eric, who had helped her secure the job researching and writing the union proposal. She'd known Eric for the better part of 20 years, since she'd spent a season working on a political campaign with him. He'd been an invaluable resource from those days on, someone she knew she could always count on.

She could hear video games in the front room, giggling and conversation from the kitchen, and it seemed like the phone was ringing constantly. They, of course, had friends over. The scent of incense wafted under her door.

She threw her book down on the nightstand and got up. "I'm getting to old for this crap," she muttered as she stalked to the bathroom to brush her hair. When she walked out and headed toward the front door, she was met by Tom, one of the room mates in question. His blond hair was long and rumpled, his eyes were slightly bloodshot and the smell of marijuana hung faintly on his clothes.

"Want some pizza rolls?" He asked from the kitchen.

"No." She was slipping on her shoes and grabbing her bag.

"Are we bugging you?" To his credit, he did seem concerned.

"No." She headed out the door and started the beat up Subaru that she had driven to Las Vegas in. It was late, but Judy, the receptionist, was getting used to her odd hours. She probably wouldn't be surprised to see her wander in at this hour, although she'd never seen her out of her professional clothes. It was her one concession to keeping her day off -- she refused to change out of her comfy jeans and tee shirt.

It took her about fifteen minutes to get to the lab, and she trudged from the back of the parking lot to the sidewalk that led to the double glass doors. Judy was on the phone when she walked past the desk, and gave her a wave and a smile. Vanessa managed a weak smile in return and made her way to the break room.

Her first move was to grab a cup of coffee. It looked like tar and tasted worse -- it had probably been on the burner since that afternoon. She grimaced, but slugged it down anyway as she dumped what remained down the sink and started a new pot.

Searching for distraction that had nothing to do with union work, she poked around in cupboards until she found a bottle of window cleaner, a box of baking soda, and a scrubby sponge. She started with the cabinets, climbing on the counters to reach the tops, spraying them with window cleaner and wiping them down with a paper towel. From there, she tore into the other surfaces in the break room -- the counters, the table, the refrigerator and the small stove. Finally, she sprinkled baking soda in the sink and attacked it with the sponge.

"What, now you're providing maid service, too? I have an office you can clean," a voice from behind her said.

She looked over her shoulder at Grissom. She'd gotten to appreciate his off-center sense of humor over the last week. In fact, he got most of her jokes, which she found a little strange. She was quickly coming to the conclusion that nothing surprised him. "Things were a little crowded at the crash pad tonight," she explained, blowing a wisp of hair out of her face and finishing rinsing the sink.

Grissom refreshed his own coffee and sat down at the table. "I thought **Eric** told you to take the night off. Wasn't there somewhere else you could think to escape to?"

She sat down opposite him, "yes he did, and no I couldn't." Her eyes narrowed, "how did you know I was supposed to take tonight off?"

He shrugged, giving her what she'd come to know as his "enigmatic look." For someone who was used to getting answers, it was unsettling.

"Okay, plead the fifth. Don't you have anything to do?" It came out more bluntly than she intended.

"If my presence is that distasteful to you, I can leave," he told her, glancing over the tops of his glasses at her.

"I didn't mean that. I'm just on edge. I was just wondering if you weren't busy with something other than sitting here keeping me company on my night off."

"Actually, I sent the team out on their assignments and managed to get my paperwork done for once. I'm free as a bird, as the saying goes," he replied.

"Don't say that too loud. The work gnomes will find something for you to do if you call attention to it," she laughed.

"I don't suppose you play chess..." he smiled.

"You know perfectly well I do. You took my move for me the other day when I was playing online."

"You were headed straight for a trap," he actually managed to look innocent.

"I had a strategy I was working on. Where were you going with that, anyway?" She tried to steer the conversation back to his original question.

"I have a board in my office," he lifted one eyebrow and looked down the hall.

"Fine, if you're going to twist my arm, but you know I'm not that good." Teasingly, she sighed heavily.

"I could always tell Eric you were working, otherwise..."

"That's dirty." She smiled as she wagged her finger at him, and followed him to his office.

There were racks upon racks of jars containing specimens of all types and sizes. It was like he had his own pickled menagerie. She looked at particular pieces with curiosity, including what appeared to be an empty terrarium containing a bit of sponge. She jumped a little bit when one of the 'rocks' in the container moved, then looked closer.

"I should have told you -- I forget not everyone keeps spiders," he apologized.

She simply turned to him, "I don't believe we've been properly introduced." She nodded in the direction of the tarantula, who had returned to stone-like stillness in the corner of the tank.

An "aha" moment. For a split second, she saw surprise register on his face. She couldn't help feeling a little smug. "That would be **Herman." **

She pulled a chair closer to the opposite side of the desk from him and sat down, watching him carefully set up the board. "Ladies first," he said.

"You've heard the kind of language I use. I'm no lady." She laughed as she moved a pawn.

"But you'll take the advantage, anyway," he replied as he moved a piece. "And I would have to argue your 'lady' status with you."

"Really? How do you figure? I'm not exactly delicate and demure," she took her turn.

"So you didn't attend the best finishing school," he joked. "Your habits are what make you able to do the work you do, which deserves respect. Sensibilities are what make a lady." Another piece moved.

"Uh-huh," she let her gaze wander over the board, looking for any early weak spots in his game. _A girl can hope,_ she thought to herself as her fingers came to rest on one of her rooks. "Sensibilities. You realize I paid for my Master's degree by hustling pool?"

"I funded a body farm by playing poker." He told her matter of factly. "What _is _your degree in?"

"My academic path has been long and convoluted. That may be more of a story than you have time or interest for," she replied. "You might use it to accuse me of distracting you from your game." Her tone was teasing at the last.

He leaned forward over the desk, eyes fixed in hers over the rim of his glasses. "I guarantee I've fixed my attention on things considerably more dull than your academic career."

"You asked for it," she wagged a finger at him, smiling. "The first school I attended was a college for the performing arts -- focus on dance and music. That was the direction I'd been heading in for years, since before high school, at the expense of everything else, really. I didn't have much of a social life, even in college. On the rare occasions that a friend would drag me out to a bar or party, I would sit against a wall and watch everyone else act like an idiot. Maybe it would have been good for me to cut loose a little, in retrospect," she laughed, "might have avoided a reputation as an ice queen, that's for sure."

One of his eyebrows shot up. She continued, "about three years into it, I kept feeling like something was missing. There was a part of me that was just not engaged by the work I was doing. I was passionate about what I did, and I was a hell of a performer -- at the risk of sounding egotistical -- but I felt very narrow and smothered. I can't think of any other way to describe it. I couldn't adjust myself to the kind of tunnel vision many of my fellow students ascribed to. They worked on their art, and they partied, and that they took any other subjects that were required, but they didn't really indulge curiosities that lay beyond..." she faltered.

"I think I know what you're talking about," he encouraged. "Keep going."

"Well, I was always curious about everything. Any kind of politics, history, literature, languages, sciences, even math -- although I stink on ice with any sort of unapplied numbers," she qualified her statement with a smirk. "At any rate. In an effort to break out of the protective shell of the college, I volunteered with a local political campaign. I started by knocking on doors and making phone calls. I found more and more of my time being taken with what I was doing -- talking to people on their door steps and on their phones, finding out what they were dealing with in their lives, finding ways that I could help. I buried myself in it. I didn't bother signing up for another quarter at the college and spent the next year working shit jobs and volunteering with a local agency focused on civil rights. When I knew what I wanted to do, I started applying to colleges and universities, looking for a good social science program. I wasn't sure whether I was going to go into political science or sociology at that point -- it depended on the curriculum. I dove headlong into political science and added a research writing major and finished both degrees in two years. I had to quit the shit jobs, and that's when I started hanging out in bars hustling pool."

"I took an internship with the ACLU, and did some work with 'at risk' youth, as they're called now. Only back then, they were just rotten kids to most people. It was like starting the whole academic road over -- I had to prove myself to the institutions I wanted to work with just as I had done in dance. It took a couple years, but I got an award to study anthropology for my Masters, and following that, a fellowship for my doctoral studies in criminology. That's the short version. There was a lot of seemingly aimless wandering between degrees, which led me to working with the labor unions, which is why I'm here." By this time, he had most of her pawns lined up on his side of the board. "So...fair is fair. Since I haven't heard you snore yet, why bugs?"

The conversation wandered for the better part of an hour while they took their time taking turns moving pieces.

"Check mate," he announced.

"Dammit," she said under her breath as she shook her head and threw up her hands in mock surrender. At that moment, Sara stuck her head in the office.

"We've got a match on that B and E you sent us on. Brass is getting the warrant and we should have everything sewn up by the end of shift," the lanky brunette told him.

"Good. Bring me the paperwork when you're done," he told her.

"What, you miss it already?" Vanessa teased, moving her chair back.

"Hardly. I'm just hoping not to get buried again too quickly."

"Well, then I suppose I should let you get back to your supervisor-ly duties," she smiled at him. "Thank you for not winning too quickly and for keeping me out of my apartment."

Sara looked at him with her brows lowered, wondering what had transpired in the office while she'd been out tape lifting her fingers to the bone. "You need anything else, Gris?"

"Not at the moment," he said absently, packing up the chess board and resigning himself to the incoming paper work for end of shift.

The young CSI shook her head and walked down the hall in the direction of the interrogation rooms.

"Are you in a hurry to get back to your apartment?" he asked as Vanessa was almost to the door.

"Are you joking? It probably looks like a war zone," she snorted. "I was actually thinking about starting my day early and just working through the night."

"Why don't you join me and the crew for breakfast, instead?" he suggested.

"I might just do that. Am I allowed to bring up my proposal, since I'll have all of you under the same roof? Or will you rat me out?" _I wish I really knew if he'd gotten in touch with Eric..._she thought.

"We'll see." He shot her another "enigmatic" look and she walked back to the break room to try to put her papers back in order -- what she'd been planning on doing before she'd gotten wrapped up in a game of chess. A week's worth of notes, and her bag and her folders and her notebooks all looked like Einstein was keeping house. She wished she knew how chaos surreptitiously worked its way into things like that.

When she returned home, the place did indeed look as if a tornado had swept through it, but at least it was quiet. She settled in for some much needed sleep.

**Chapter Three: Armor**

She returned to her "office" promptly at ten the next evening. The first person she saw was Ecklie, wandering in for coffee. "Sounds like you're getting along well with graveyard shift," he said.

"Just fine, thank you," she kept her answer purposely ambiguous.

"Well, good. I hope that the work you're doing will smooth over the problems that have been going on there."

"What kind of problems?" She hoped her question sounded innocent enough, even though he was grating on her nerves. She'd put enough together going through files, and even though no one on the shift said anything directly about the supervisor, she'd detected a tone of rancor whenever his name came up.

"You've been through their files. The team definitely has its weak points. I just hope that your proposal treats some of the counseling and disciplinary practices more stringently than they are at the moment," he replied.

"Really?" She had realized shortly into her tenure that she was internalizing this job more than normal, and was having trouble keeping the edge out of her voice. She'd watched this group put in doubles routinely, consistently picking up the slack from other shifts. She had developed a respect for and, felt that she was growing close to, every one of them.

His eyes narrowed a little bit, "you see, Vanessa, this shift has been prone to problems since Grissom took over. Members of the team letting their personal lives get mixed up in what they do here. I find that unacceptable. I'm sure you do, too."

She heaved a sigh, "we've been over this before. My first day, in fact. I'm not here to make your life easier. I'm here to develop a proposal based on the needs of the people who work here, as I see them. Do we need to discuss this again?"

"Yeah. Why don't we wander down to my office."

She refused to follow him, instead, matching her pace and stride to his so that they were side by side the entire way. She could see that this was the kind of person who found a perceived weakness and tweaked it for all it was worth. Nothing more than a school yard bully in a bargain basement suit. The only way to deal with a bully was to stand up to them -- she'd learned that when she was eleven and had never let go of it since. The scene replayed in her mind as she made her way down the hall.

_Always one to stick up for the under dog, she'd noticed a cluster of kids on the school yard. Approaching the group, she heard howls of pain, and laughter from the collected group. Inside the ring of children, she saw a student she knew from the year before. Although she couldn't remember the girls name, she remembered that she'd had difficulty in reading and in sports. There was a scar on her upper lip that ran to her nose, making the area in between look slightly twisted. Currently, one of the boys had her glasses and her book bag while another was viciously pinching her on her arms. As she tried frantically to grab her belongings and dodge the fingers of the other, the children in the circle laughed._

_Vanessa felt sick at what she had seen, and broke into the middle of the crowd. "Knock it off!" She'd hollered. _

_"C'mon. Its no big deal," the boy with holding the girl's book bag laughed._

_Vanessa marched boldly up to the boy and grabbed the back pack and glasses from him. She heard a muffled "jee-eez," as she turned on the other boy, planting one hand firmly on his shoulder and shoving him down in one smooth motion. "I said, knock it off."_

_The boy sat there on the ground, staring at her dumb-founded. "What's your deal? You want a turn?" He asked, picking pebbles out of his skinned palms._

_"Sure," she said, "I can knock you down again, too. And I'll keep knocking you down until you act right."_

_Just then, a teacher came around the corner and the entire group split up, running in different directions. _

Ecklie made himself comfortable at his desk before inviting her to sit -- it was a pattern of behavior she recognized. He wanted her on his turf, to make her 'comfortable,' all so he could exert what power he thought he wielded over her and yank the rug out from under her. She wasn't having it.

"I'll stand, thank you," she replied.

"I just want to make sure you know that I have to sign off on your proposal before it goes to the sheriff. And the lawyers hash it out from there. Really, your role in the whole process is insignificant. A small piece of the whole puzzle."

"So maybe I should just pack up my lap top, go home, and slap together whatever sounds good to me at the time?" she asked, crossing her arms, not even trying to keep the acid out of her voice.

"That might be an option. You've been putting in more hours than you should, and you could use the extra time to really get out and enjoy the city," his tone was light, but his hands toyed with a pen on the table. Picking it up, putting it down, spinning it on its side, constantly in motion. He was nervous about something.

"Is there something you need to tell me? If there is, you had better out with it, because I'll find out, anyhow. I don't need to wander the strip like a tourist. You forget, I have a job waiting here in a few weeks, so I'm a resident. I'm here to do my job, not loaf around."

"You have an admirable work ethic," he began, "but they really should have hired someone internally for this job."

"Is that so? Maybe someone more prone to lick your boots? Would that be more what you had in mind?" Her voice was low but sharp. "I've never kissed anyone's ass to get where I am and I'm not about to start on you."

There was a knock on the door, which had been left standing open. It was Brass, with a pile of paperwork for the administrator to apply his rubber stamp to. "Am I interrupting something?" he inquired, not bothering to hide a smile.

"Not at all," Vanessa replied, leaving Ecklie with his mouth open, his own ill-tempered response hanging, unspoken. "I was just about to go back to _work._" She turned and planted both hands on Ecklie's desk, putting herself at eye level with him. In a low, penetrating, voice, she said, "If you want to play power games, take it some place else. I don't have time for it. Keep it up, and I'll see to it that you get investigated for breech of ethics." She turned and left without even looking back to see his response.

She did go back to the break room, but instead of sitting down at her lap top, she grabbed her purse and headed back down the hall to an exit, muttering obscenities the entire way. She stepped out into a large black topped area, fished in her purse for her cigarettes and lighter, and once lit up, she leaned back against the cool brick of the building. She just sat there, puffing away, looking at the sky. It was almost impossible to see the stars for all the light pollution, but she had no doubt that further away from civilization, they put on a stunning show.

She took a deep drag on her cigarette, exhaling in a long, drawn out sigh. She was having a hard time getting a reign on her temper this time. Usually people didn't get to her so deeply -- she just calmly made up her mind to reach whatever goal it was that she set and went for it, in spite of obstacles. It didn't matter whether those obstacles were circumstances or people. This isn't to say that she didn't feel the stress of her job. Being an advocate in any capacity brought with it a whole raft of responsibility, frustration, sometimes defeat and guilt. But she had made up her mind to speak out for those who couldn't, or were limited, a long time ago. It was what she did instinctively, and she did it selfishly. It was what she had to do so that she could get up every morning and face herself and the rest of humanity feeling like she was worth the space she took up.

The door next to her squeaked open. "That was impressive." She didn't turn around, but the voice was male, with an East coast accent. It was Brass.

She snorted laughter. "It was the truth."

"Yeah, well, you definitely took him back a peg. He's used to being either avoided or sucked up to, not confronted. Just so you know, the rest of team, and that includes the other shifts, appreciate the work your doing. Word in the halls is that you're a female Cesar Chavez."

"Shit." She blew out the last puff on the cigarette and ground it under the toe of her shoe, then picked it up and put it in the coffee can by the door.

"Isn't that a good thing?" the detective asked.

"I'm not sure." She replied and quietly walked back into the building.

The rest of the night passed relatively uneventfully. She sat at her lap top, compiling her notes from a week and a half's worth of research and interviews. She exchanged pleasantries with the other team members who breezed in and out of the room, but she wasn't in much of a mood for conversation, and it showed. Eventually, the shift was over, and she gathered her things and headed out to her car, wondering morbidly how many crashers her room mates would have over tonight. It seemed like there was always someone sleeping on their couch.

She spotted a bar on her drive back and swung into a parking place on impulse. It looked relatively quiet -- it was off the beaten path, and lacked the wealth of garish neon paraphernalia that graced most of the other buildings in this end of town. Walking through the single door, the atmosphere was one of privacy. The booths that lined the walls were tall and away from direct lighting. There were a minimum of stools at the bar and free standing tables in the middle of the floor. The blues played over a speaker system, but not so loudly that a person couldn't think or have a conversation.

She selected a small booth in the middle of the wall and ordered a tequila when the waitress approached. She took a sip and savored the slow warmth of the amber liquid as she swallowed. Leaning back in the booth, she let her mind stop churning and just listened to the drone of quiet conversations overlaid by Billie Holiday singing "Stormy Weather."

A subtle shift in the light behind her eyelids told her someone was standing at the table. _Probably the waitress. I shouldn't, but I guess I will have a second._ She opened her eyes and saw Grissom standing there next to her.

"Problems?" He asked.

She rolled her eyes. She was past tact. She was past worrying about maintaining professional distance in her communications. "Your head administrator is an unmitigated ass," she said bluntly. She'd been stewing over the exchange all day. "A bottom-feeding, sleazy, self-important wind bag."

"Don't sugar coat it," he laughed a little, and sat down. "I hope you don't mind..." he finished.

"No, no. Its fine. How much do you drink?" She asked.

The question appeared to catch him a little off guard. "Well, the average person should have at least eight eight-ounce glasses of water a day."

"Stop being facetious. How can you work with him and not drink yourself blind at least once a week?" she started, "I'm sorry. That _was_ really inappropriate of me."

"I think I can handle it," he said, this time with a full smile. "When he gets too irritating I hide in one of the labs and put things together that make small explosions. And there's always the firing range."

"Sounds therapeutic," she laughed, finishing her drink and ordering the second she'd been thinking about earlier.

He shrugged. "You wanna know therapy? There's a great roller coaster in a park on the edge of the city..."

She cut him off, "nope. Not on a bet. I do _not_ go on rides. I'll stick to tequila. And cigarettes. I actually started smoking again, thanks to him and his attitude. He spent all Tuesday evening popping in and out of the break room trying to read over my shoulder!"

"How about on a triple-dog dare?" He responded.

"No. Life is enough of an adventure for me." She said firmly, although she was laughing.

He looked at her with an exaggerated expression of disappointment. Her second drink came, and another one for him, and the conversation shifted tracks. "Brass told me what happened today. Are you holding up okay?"

"I'm fine," she said lightly, sitting up a little straighter in her seat. "Why do you ask? Not because I've been _kvetching_ about Ecklie...I've dealt with his type before."

"Uhh-huh. He gave you a compliment and you swore. You have something against Cesar Chavez?"

"Oh, that. Its nothing." She said, schooling her features into a mask of neutrality, hiding her frown by taking a deep drink of her tequila.

He didn't look convinced, but didn't press the issue. Etta James came over the speakers, singing "At Last." A classic. "I love this one," she said, settling back in her seat, grabbing the opportunity to redirect the conversation without being awkward.

"Interesting," his voice was so quiet that she almost missed it.

He was beginning to wonder if there was anything she couldn't hear. "What's so interesting about that?" She asked, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. She was feeling the effects of the second tequila; her breath was warm in the back of her throat, and it seemed that she could feel her blood thrumming through veins and capillaries, warm and steady. All in all, it was the most relaxed she'd been in a week.

He cocked his head to the side and studied her from across the table. "The side of yourself you show people professionally versus the side that's having a drink in a bar listening to Etta James."

"And the difference would be?" She raised an eyebrow, lowering the enigmatic, neutral mask over her countenance again.

"Professionally, you've had to be very assertive. A classic type-A personality, if one were to simplify it. Outside of work you appear to...soften a little." He finished, looking a little dissatisfied with his description.

"The hard ass wears her armor to conceal the fact that, underneath, she is fundamentally, a cream puff?"

"To put it another way, I suppose," he agreed, smiling again. "How about we go for a walk?" He suggested.

She paused for a moment, trying to evaluate the situation. _What the hell_, she thought, and nodded. They paid their individual bills and headed outside into the early morning sunlight. They wandered through quiet side streets, avoiding the heavier pedestrian traffic of the main roads. Somewhere in the course of a conversation that ranged through topics such as music, science fiction, comic books, astronomy, physics, history and philosophy, she noticed, uncomfortably, that she was not only enjoying, but growing accustomed to his company.

It was Saturday night, and slow, oddly enough, in the crime lab. Three of the five team members had made a day trip for a conference. The building was eerily quiet without them. Vanessa had had the break room all to herself, all night. The table was littered with papers, pens, markers, pencils, paperclips, and folders. To an outside observer, it looked like chaos had taken over her small work space, but in fact, there was a method to her madness. Each pile of papers fit into a loose category which she had mapped out in the notebook in she held in her hand. Her lap top stood open, but the only application that was running was the CD player. It was Beethoven tonight. Piano sonatas, violin concerto, 9th Symphony, and anything else in her music library with Ludwig van's name attached to it. His music always inspired her, calmed her, engaged her passion and her competitive streak, and filled her with a sense of wonder, and it never failed to amaze her that she could hear all that in a single piece.

"Whoa!" a laughing female voice came from the doorway. It was Sara, she was staring at the table with her mouth hanging open, trying to stifle a laugh as Vanessa looked up from her work. She was sitting in a yoga-like cross legged position, and instead of her usual professional attire, she was dressed in faded jeans and an old tee shirt. Her chestnut/auburn hair had been pulled into a messy pony tail, then wound into an equally messy bun, and it bristled with more pens and pencils than were scattered on the table. The sound of Beethoven's Apassionata Sonata blared out of the extra speakers she had hooked up to her lap top. Since there was no room for her coffee on the table, she'd set the cup on the floor by her feet.

"You and Grissom are in the same boat tonight," she said, giving in to the laugh she tried valiantly to hold back, walking over to the coffee pot and liberally dumping sugar into her cup, taking a sip to test it.

"Huh?" Vanessa asked absently. She was elbows deep in supervisory evaluations, reading about everyone from the top down, making a list of who signed whose evaluation and noting any inconsistencies. She had a theory, and she was laying the foundation to make it work; she was still supremely angry with Ecklie, who was working swing this week, lucky for her. Not only would she have some peace and quiet to conduct her research into _his_ performance, but she didn't think her temper could handle any more of his antics. She'd managed to keep herself under control so far, but only barely.

"Grissom is doing case reviews tonight. His desk looks like your table. And he's about as approachable as a porcupine," the lanky brunette finished, flopping down on the couch that sat against one wall facing a TV.

"I'm sorry," Vanessa shook her head, clearing her thoughts, "I didn't mean to be snippy."

"No. He's snippy. You're just distracted. There's a difference." The other woman smiled. "He always gets like this when he can't see over his paperwork, though. He was never meant to be a beurocrat," she shrugged.

"I know someone who was," Vanessa said, exasperated, looking at the files in front of her. "I'm so buried in Ecklie's rubber stamp right now I don't think I'll ever find my way through this," she viewed the papers in front of her and a look of bewildered consternation crossed her features. "I mean, look at this. I've got papers that say papers were signed, papers that say papers were received, papers to say there was paper in the first place. I'm surprised they don't document which tree made which page with a serial number so they can track it all the way back to its source. And _all_ of it has his signature on it."

"Why are you so worried about that?"

Vanessa has caught a flicker of annoyance on Sara's face when the administrator's name came up. On a hunch, the older woman decided to confide in the investigator, just a little bit. Not enough to show her hand, but enough that she might get the information she wanted before doomsday rolled around. "Something is just rubbing me the wrong way about grave shifts files," she started, brow furrowing, "I can't put my finger on what, but I have a feeling he's at the bottom of it."

"Wouldn't surprise me. He's tried to get me fired a few times," Sara grimaced.

"I know." Vanessa replied. "I read that part already. I'd tell you how it ends, but I don't want to spoil it for you," she finished with a dry laugh.

Just then another figure showed up in the door frame. "What? Coffee clutch and I wasn't invited?" It was Nick, the only other CSI who had stayed back from the conference in Reno. Members of swing and grave, whom Vanessa had come to think of as a single unit despite their divergent schedules, had taken it upon themselves to cover for other members who were out of town, so Nick was covering for Warrick -- pulling a double.

"Well, you looked like you were really busy, sorting through whatever that was in your locker," Sara teased him.

"As much as I like my job, we don't get enough nights like this. Its rewarding to solve a case, but when its actually quiet you feel like you might have made a dent in something," Nick commented, heading for the refrigerator.

Vanessa understood the young man's train of thought. On the one hand, if there were no crime, he wouldn't have a job. And it was a job that he loved. On the other hand, his motivations for building his career in forensics had come, in an odd sense, out of a desire to help people, rather than to spend days and nights in a lab plotting points on a chart. She felt much the same way. She instinctively defended those who couldn't defend themselves, or had a compromised ability to do so. Beyond that, she wanted to teach people how to advocate for their own issues. Help people take up their own causes. Build communities and neighborhoods where people were enfranchised at every level of policy and government. If there were no people to defend, she would also be out of a job. And yet, when she saw people learning to read, writing to representatives, forming their own interest groups, and representing themselves, that's when her job was the most rewarding.

"Yeah, ironic when your job is most rewarding when you don't have to do it any longer," Vanessa said, giving voice to the thought.

That brought a smile to both faces. Nick had been rummaging around, looking for the left over Mexican take out he'd brought with him for lunch. Having found what he was looking for, he sat down on the couch next to Sara. "What's with the mess?" He asked, indicating the table.

"Oof! You're lucky she's not as touchy as Grissom!" She laughed at her coworker.

"Is he still in a bad mood?" Nick asked.

"You bet. Until he can see the top of his desk again." She replied. "Vanessa, here, has a research project she's embarking on. The goal is to go through all of _that"_ she gave the piles on the table the Vanna White treatment, "while Ecklie is out from under foot."

"That looks like a tall order," Nick started, "I saw him hovering around the other day, I know what you mean. It'd get on my nerves, too."

"You used to do it to Greg all the time," Sara chided.

"Yeah, but that was different. I'm likable," Nick replied over his shoulder, chucking his lunch container in the trash and heading out the door, back to whatever had been occupying his attention before he'd walked in.

"Between us," Vanessa started, sensing a conspirator in the woman who sat on the couch, looking like her fingers were itching to neaten piles of paper, "when was it that Grissom and Ecklie started to but heads?"

"Since I can remember. Catherine would have a better answer if you're looking for an outside opinion, she's been around longer. Her or Brass. It seemed to escalate when Gris got promoted, though. I couldn't even tell you why -- it isn't like Ecklie _wanted_ graveyard shift. Hell, Grissom didn't want to be supervisor, for that matter. I wish I knew more." Sara shrugged.

"Thanks," Vanessa said, "I'm just frustrated because there's something in these piles that should tell me something, and I can't find it for all the back tracking and garbage."

"I probably ought to get back to clearing out the storage room," Sara said grimly.

"Before you try to organize me?" Vanessa asked, laughing at the sheepish smile that crossed Sara's face. "I thought so. Happy sorting."

Vanessa was left to her own devices for the better part of an hour before Grissom wandered in the door, looking like he'd been pulling at his hair. He made a bee-line for the coffee pot. He didn't even notice the table.

"I'm fine, and how are you," Vanessa smirked when he jumped at the sound of her voice.

"Half blind." He pocketed his glasses and ran a hand over his tired eyes.

"You too?" she laughed, gesturing at her mess. "I should be out showing people how to plant community gardens, lobbying for asbestos removal in old buildings, developing better school curriculums, giving kids something to do besides injure each other. Instead I'm here."

"Oh. I'm so sorry. I didn't know we were such bad company. And you know, the working conditions are abysmal," he said in a voice thick with sarcasm.

"Well, one of you is bad company," Vanessa muttered.

"I've been meaning to talk to Greg about his attitude," he joked.

"You know perfectly well who I'm referring to. I'm trying to use his 'bury 'em in paperwork' strategy against him here. A person shouldn't be able to create a paper trail like this without screwing up somewhere." she told him. She'd gotten over her professional inhibition about griping the other night at the bar, and didn't even attempt to hide the growl in her tone.

Vanessa sat up and stretched backward in her chair, trying to work the knots out of her shoulders. "I quit," she blew a few stray hairs out of her eyes and threw her pen down on the table. "I surrender. I need a break. Chess?" She suggested.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Two hours later, they were into their third game. She watched him deliberating over his next move, chin set on his hand like _The Thinker_. She'd been pondering the situation between him and the administrator almost the whole time. The more they talked, the more she felt she had a grip on it. The crux of the problem was a basic personality conflict. These were two people who would never be able to really work together or like each other. Yet, before his promotion, Grissom had posed no serious threat to the day shift supervisor turned head administrator. There was no question in anyone's mind who the better scientist was, and when Grissom had been elevated to grave shift supervisor, putting him on equal footing with Ecklie, the 'threat,' whether real or not, had materialized.

Yet, from what she had seen in file after file and countless documents was that Ecklie seemed to be going out of his way to impede the entire grave shift, not just the supervisor, (which would have been petty enough, really) in order to keep the perceived threat from becoming a reality.

Then there was Brass's comment the other day. She didn't want to be anyone's hero, or anyone's leader. She didn't want to step up on that pedestal. She just wanted to quietly work to help people help themselves, one at a time if necessary, well out of reach of the lime light. She was familiar with leadership, with a group of people looking to her for answers, hoping she could work a miracle that would save their cause. It was draining; the long hours, the stress, and worst of all, the fear that she would prove unworthy and come crashing down from that pedestal...

"Check," his voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

"What the..." she hadn't even seen the opening she'd left, and now that he'd taken the opportunity, it was as big as a barn. "How did I not see that?" She shook her head.

"Looked to me like your mind was somewhere else," he said, giving her a penetrating look that made her want to squirm.

"Didn't think I was that obvious," she laughed at herself, shaking off the disconcerting feeling that he was figuring her out. "Next time, we're playing pool. You've won three times in a row."

"So, what were you thinking about?"

"Is it some sort of compulsion that you have to indulge your curiosity like this? That could get you in trouble," she said pointedly.

"Probably. That didn't answer the question, though." he replied.

"I shouldn't talk to you about that. I'll be fine. I only have to deal with him another week or two, and then I'm outta here. I'm sure to run into even more people like him. Its a curse of community organizing," she told him, trying to keep her tone dismissive. A piece of her, a well stifled, deeply buried, piece, itched to have someone to really unload on. She imagined herself stomping rudely on that piece, driving it out of her consciousness. Or at least making it small enough to ignore.

"How about over pool. We can pretend to be civilians," he said, smiling at her a little.

_Why on earth is he being so stubborn about this? _she thought, feeling confused. "I suppose. It might be nice to spend some time out of uniform."

He arched an eyebrow at her, "you can't talk about what's bugging you, but you can offer to spend time with me out of uniform?" he was trying not to laugh at her.

"Ha. Smart ass. You started it," she returned. "Pool it is. When and where?"

"Tonight, after shift?" he offered. "You wouldn't hustle me, would you?" his eyes narrowed.

"Never..." she told him with wide, innocent eyes. "Not even if you deserved it. I'll just beat the pants off you fair and square."

"There you go again. Freud would definitely have something to say about that," he said, chuckling.

"Don't you have case reviews to do?"

"Not unless you want to set up the chess board again..."

**Chapter Four: Bagged and Tagged**

It was her final week in the lab. She'd put together all the information from files, conducted her interviews, and her five copies of her proposal sat in manila envelopes on the break room table. All she had to do was turn them over to the proper people and head out the door. One for each shift supervisor, one for Ecklie, and one for Brass, as the union rep elected to give the document its first reading. She was surprised to find herself reluctant to hand her work over and be done with this job. For all the petty politics that had been involved, she felt she'd grown attached to the people who worked in the lab, particularly the grave yard shift. She'd always gravitated toward late shifts and the sort of people who worked them. Somehow, this was different. She was deeply satisfied with her work, convinced that it would help them somehow.

She heaved a heavy sigh. _No time like the present. Tomorrow never comes. Why put off til tomorrow what you can do today..._ there seemed to be a million adages that were supposed to spur one into action. Not a one of them rang true. She walked to the reception desk and asked Judy to place the enveloped destined for swing and day shift supervisors in the appropriate boxes. The rest she would hand deliver.

"How's the battle?" a male voice broke into her thoughts. She'd been ambling down the hall, trying to decide who's to drop off first. It would be nice to just get Ecklie out of the way. At the same time, it would be nice to make him wait for it. Her head jerked up and she saw Brass standing in front of her.

She gave him a wry smile. "Almost over," she said, handing him an envelope. "Enjoy..."

"How'd you know what I wanted? I love union proposals!"

"Well, it wasn't easy. I talked to just about everyone...I wanted to make sure it was your favorite," she teased. "I kept the receipt in case you don't like it, and it does come with a five year warranty," referring to the five year review stipulation she had included in the text.

Brass just smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder, "we're gonna miss you around here," he said simply. His pager went off before she got a chance to respond. "Shit. I gotta get out to Freemont. I'll catch you later." His mind was already on the call as he walked away from her and out the door.

She watched his retreating form with a smile. He was all gruff on the outside, but she had a strong inclination that the exterior hid a great big teddy bear. She squared her shoulders and looked at the second folder in her hand. Ecklie, she thought. Get it the hell over with. She walked purposefully down the hall, long strides carrying her quickly over linoleum squares and around the corner to the posh office that housed the administrator in his 'official' capacity.

"I'm finished." She said bluntly. No need to dress it up. No love lost on this one. In fact, she still wished she could have found that one shred of evidence that she would have needed to open an investigation on him. She'd read the case file about the arsonist his testimony almost sent to the chair. An innocent man. And Grissom had stepped in with tenacity and his own odd compassion, and proved the man innocent. How many others were there like that one, who were sitting in a cell for something they didn't do, because Ecklie was content to simply go with the first answer that came to him, bending the facts to fit his reality? The thought made her want to retch. In fact, that was part of what she loved about what these people did -- they made damn good and sure that the people paying for crimes were truly the people who committed them, not a convenient scape-goat. As someone who had worked in her share of 'developing' communities (as many liked to call them), she'd known many people in the prison system. Some were there justifiably. Others weren't. Other's were railroaded because lack of funds or resources made it impossible to supply ample defense. She'd met her share of public defenders who were treating their current lowly position as a stepping stone on the way to something bigger and better, and didn't give a rip about the people they served. Same with prosecutors. How many had she dealt with who were using the people they went up against as fodder for their political resume? Who cares if they're guilty or innocent -- just get another case under your belt, so that your record looks more impressive than it did last week. The attitude literally sickened her.

"Well, good. I'm looking forward to reading it." As with the first day, his smile never reached his eyes. She wanted for all the world to tell him to just cut the crap, but the people in the lab were depending on her to get the best deal for them that she could. That meant she had to be diplomatic.

"And I'm looking forward to your response," she said lightly, hoping she sounded convincing, as she stepped out of the office and walked back down the hall to the office across from the break room.

The door was open, but she tapped anyhow. Grissom looked up from behind his desk -- now clear of files, _no thanks to an evening of chess_, she thought -- "Vanessa, what can I do for you?" He looked pleasantly surprised to see her.

"Well, I finished the proposal," she started, "Brass already has his copy. I should give you the heads up, he just ran off to a scene on Freemont. You may be getting a call."

He nodded and accepted the folder she handed to him. "What about Ecklie?"

"Oh, I thought I'd get the unpleasant business out of the way first. I just left his office," she replied, smiling.

Grissom nodded, "so your work here is almost done?"

"I suppose," she said, sinking into the chair across from his desk.

"You sound disappointed," he prompted, his eyes inquisitive.

"I guess I am. I kinda like you guys," she replied, smiling.

"Well, your popularity with the graveyard team is hardly lacking. They know perfectly well who has their back," he started, "and they appreciate it."

"That's sweet, and I appreciate it, but its not necessary," she told him, "I was called here to do a job, and I did it to the best of my ability. I'm here to advocate for the staff, not the administration."

"That's the point, you entered this thing on the side of the people who do all the work here, the people who make this lab one of the best in the country, and they know you're willing to fight for them. It means a lot."

"Well, thank you." She felt herself blushing a little. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ she thought. _I don't blush. I don't get embarrassed. I'm **not** embarrassed, dammit...so knock it off..._ but the heat wouldn't leave her face.

"I didn't mean to embarrass you," he said, rather quietly. "I just wanted you to know that your efforts haven't gone unnoticed."

She felt the flush intensify, "it's nothing. I'm just doing my job. I couldn't _not_ do it if I wanted to..." she stammered to a halt.

He sensed her need to change the subject, "wanna set up the board one last time?" he raised an eyebrow, and a distinctly competitive look took over his eyes.

"You're on. I'm surprised all this winning you've been doing hasn't gone to your head," she heckled, "you haven't had any trouble fitting through doorways, lately, have you?"

"Not that I've noticed, and I'm sure Catherine would tell me if I were," he laughed. Not the quiet, half hidden laugh she was used to, but out loud.

"Shall I go get us some coffee?" she offered, "while you set up the board. Mind you, if we were playing cards I wouldn't leave you alone for a second," she warned.

"And I wouldn't let you rack at pool unattended, either. We're even. And yes, I could use some coffee, thank you."

**Chapter Five: Checkmate**

The phone rang on her bedside table, startling her. _Now, who the hell? _she thought to herself as she lifted the receiver.

"You might want to come down here," it was Judy, the tiny, soft spoken receptionist. No one in the lab would guess the shy woman had such tenacity, but Vanessa had suspected and her next sentence clued her in, "Ecklie just handed me the copy of your proposal that you gave him. He's done some pretty serious editing."

Vanessa had suspected, but now she was shocked, "how do you know that?"

"I'm holding it in my hand," Judy sounded slightly exasperated.

"Wasn't it sealed?"

"No. He asked me to stuff it in an envelope and send it to the attorneys." Vanessa breathed a hefty sigh of relief at the answer. Leave it to someone like Ecklie to assume that someone like Judy would just do as she was told.

"I'm on my way. Ten minutes." Vanessa hung up the phone and yanked on her jeans and a clean tee-shirt, grabbed her brief case and hopped in her car.

True to her word, she was at the lab within ten minutes. Swing shift was just finishing, Ecklie probably thought he was going to sneak out early, but he was in for a surprise.

Judy silently handed her the proposal when she stopped at the desk.

She looked at the thick stack of paper in front of her. She'd handed it over to the administrative supervisor with the intent that it would reach the sheriff and then the mayor, with only their signatures to show that they had seen the document. Intact. Instead, she got it back with a multitude of "corrections." Actually, they looked more like riders and vetoes on a congressional bill. She dropped wearily down in her customary chair in the break room to go over the alterations, literally line by line. Legal pad and paper in hand, she noted each change the administrator had made according to line and page number. These entries were followed with her own, refuting the alterations.

Two and a half hours later, she stalked out of the break room which had become her make shift office (and home away from home) over the last couple months to find Ecklie, the heels of her boots snapping smartly on the linoleum.

Half way down the hall, she spied David Hodges with his nose down a microscope. She stuck her head in the lab and asked in a level voice, "would you be able to tell me where Ecklie is?"

"Yeah...uh...I think he's in the autopsy room." She turned quickly and didn't even see him pick up his cell phone.

It didn't even occur to her in her irritation that the autopsy room would be one of the _least_ likely rooms to find the administrative supervisor. She just strode down the hall and around the corner and burst through the double doors.

Grissom and Dr. Robbins looked up sharply at her as she entered. She didn't pay them the slightest notice. "Where is he?" She demanded. Her normally mellow, alto voice rang off the stainless steel and tile walls; it was a voice to stop a lynch mob in full swing. Her anger was palpable, it came off her in waves. As many times as she'd confronted Ecklie in her time at the lab, no one had ever heard her raise her voice, but she was doing so now. All in all, even for the unrufflable Gil Grissom and Dr. Robbins, it was a little disconcerting.

"Who?" Grissom ventured, snapping off gloves and stepping towards her.

"That narcissistic desk jockey, Ecklie, that's who." She growled. "I need to have a discussion with him."

Normally, the grave shift supervisor and/or the coroner would have instantly escorted an unauthorized person out, but she had taken both of them aback with her entrance. It was obvious that she was holding her composure together by the thinnest veneer of calm. It wouldn't be long before she was turning over steel tables and darting the walls with surgical tools.

"What makes you think Ecklie would be in here?" Robbins asked, brows knitting in concern.

"His little toady down the hall told me..." she trailed off, "but of course, now that he has a cush little desk job he doesn't get his hands dirty, I suppose." The words of her final sentence were like bullets.

"What are you doing in here?" Ecklie asked from behind her. "No unauthorized persons allowed," he indicated the sign outside the door. He looked at Grissom and Robbins, "why haven't one of you escorted her out?" His expression held a distinct hint of gloat.

She whirled around and unleashed her temper: "I'm in here because this is where your lap dog said you'd be. I wanted to ask you just what the hell you think this is," she demanded, flinging it to the floor at his feet. "This is not an object lesson in how a bill becomes a law. I spent four weeks poring over files and talking to the people who work here. The contract is for them, not the administration, although I think we've had that discussion before. This is _not_ up for debate."

"It is, if I say it is, and I didn't agree with your findings." He kept his voice even.

"What makes you think its your place to agree with anything? Why the hell are you so nervous about what I've written? You've been hovering and snooping since I started --"

He cut her off with a patronizing tone, "I realize you've worked very hard, but I wonder if your proposal is as objective as it should be. You've gotten awfully cozy with members of the grave yard shift. I thought, in light of that, that the document could use some critical revision."

The shift in her tone and posture from near violence to icy calm was as disturbing as her entrance had been. "Really," she almost purred. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'll get this done, in its original form, with you or without you." She gave the administrator a grim half smile and walked out of the room, down the hall, past the reception area and outside.

A half hour later, as the sun was coming up and early morning commuters were clogging the streets, she returned. Her first stop was at the reception desk. "Do you know where I can scare up one of those 'forensics' jackets?" she quietly asked the receptionist.

"Ecklie has been stomping around in a huff since you left. What are you up to?" Judy asked quietly.

"Just don't worry about it. I need that jacket. Preferably before the end of rush hour. I'll be in the break room."

Her next move was to hook up her printer and make a clean copy of her document. If she could pull this off just right, Ecklie, and anyone else for that matter, wouldn't have much of a choice whether they approved her proposals or not. Just because she detested office politics didn't mean she wasn't good at playing the game.

She picked up her cell phone and called a friend who'd worked with the Teamsters in a similar capacity for years. Handling the phone with one hand and pulling sheets of paper out of the printer tray as they finished, her mind was racing as she finished devising her scheme.

"Yeah. Eric. Vanessa here. I'm in a bit of a jam. Has anyone ever put a contract proposal on line before? As in, public access?"

_"I've never heard of it, but that doesn't mean it hasn't been done. Why?"_

"I'm emailing you a document and I need you to post it on line. In the mean time, I'm going to stage a one-woman strike. I'm also going to send a fresh copy to you, certified mail, to eliminate any debate anyone might want to start. Wish me luck." She heard Eric laughing as she hit 'send' on her computer and hung up, grabbed her papers, and was headed out the door in time to meet Judy coming up the hall, with a wad of phone messages and mail in her hand.

"The jacket is sitting on a chair in the reception area," Judy told her on her way past, with a conspiratorial smile.

She casually grabbed and shrugged into the jacket on her way through, and stopped at her car long enough to pull a piece of poster board out of the back seat, and marched over to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the intersection from the lab. Once there, she held her sign aloft so that anyone who was stuck in traffic (and most of them were) could read it clearly: DO YOU SUPPORT JUSTICE? and on the back SUPPORT YOUR CRIME LAB.

She garnered a lot of honking horns and waves from people passing by, not to mention a few whistles from construction workers. She paced back and forth on the corner of the sidewalk for the better part of an hour before she saw Ecklie walking toward her through the now thinning traffic.

"What is this? What are you doing?" He demanded.

"The people who work in that building would breech their ethics if they held their own strike, so I'm holding one for them. I'm going to stand here, wearing this jacket and waving this sign, until you play ball," she replied calmly, and returned to smiling, cheering and waving at the cars as they drove past, giving the thumbs up to those who honked.

"Yeah, right..." he mumbled as he turned and walked away.

Inside the lab, the cogs of the gossip machine were humming along at record speed. Grave shift had called swing, who showed up as promptly as possible to witness the political coup that was taking place at the lab. While she stood outside, talking to every pedestrian that passed and waving at cars, Greg was dishing the news to Nick, who told Warrick, who told Catherine...and all of them were taking a secret delight in the administrator's discomfort. They had all gathered in the break room, in part to get coffee, and in part to support the woman who had become a surrogate part of the team over the last ten weeks.

"I haven't seen Ecklie's underwear in such a wad since before he was promoted!" Greg told Nick, laughing.

"You don't think she'll get anywhere, do you?" asked Warrick, always the skeptic.

"Her game seems pretty tight," Greg responded, "I heard that she asked a friend of hers to post the original proposal on line for public access so that the authenticity of her work can't be compromised..."

"And if she brings in enough attention, Atwater is going to have Ecklie strung up. He's gotta handle it before the mayor gets involved." Nick finished.

Grissom was the last to arrive, and walked in on the middle of the conversation, as usual. After Vanessa had left the autopsy room, he'd returned to his office and barricaded himself in to get paperwork done -- therefore he'd missed most of the action. "What's going on?"

Catherine brought him up to speed while the rest discussed her strategy. Grissom's eyebrows shot up, "a 'one woman strike?' I knew she was pissed, but..." he left the thought hanging.

"It sure looks like it. Ecklie can't really do anything about it short of pick her up and carry her back in the building, and that wouldn't look good, either. He's got a situation on his hands and he can either play nice or let it get out of control. Not being a direct employee has given her a lot of power, and I don't think he expected her to know what to do with it," she finished, grinning.

By the time three hours had passed, rush hour traffic had thinned and she'd told her story to a reporter from one of the small, alternative press newspapers published locally. "The people who work in this lab, serving the citizens of this city, twenty-four hours a day, every day, all year long, don't have the option to strike, so I'm doing it for them."

At about ten in the morning, she'd been at her self-assigned post for four hours; the temperature seemed to be rising exponentially, magnified by the surrounding concrete. She saw someone leave the lab and walk toward her, but her vision was obscured by blinding sun and passing cars. She figure on Ecklie again, headed out to try to bully her into giving up as he had several times already. She ground her teeth together and got ready for the argument.

She was surprised to see Grissom walking toward her when the light changed, and breathed a sigh of relief There would be no argument from him. They'd had many a discussion over a chess board on slow nights, and she figured he knew her well enough by now not to try to talk her out of any given course of action. "You're going to wind up with heat stroke, you know," he commented as he approached.

"Will that call more public attention to the issue? It might be worth it," she replied, not without a certain bite to her tone. He held out a bottle of water and she accepted it, "thanks."

"Well, you're certainly the talk of the lab this morning. You really think you're going to get around Ecklie?"

"I was brought down here to revise the union contract you and your staff have to live with, not him. That means I'll go through him, over him, or around him, but it's going to get done. He doesn't have a choice," she said simply, "what's he gonna do...fire me? That'd be a great trick, since he didn't hire me. I'd like to see him try."

"Just watch your back," the supervisor advised before he walked back across the street and through the double doors.

At two in the afternoon, she'd been awake for well over 24 hours, her nose was sunburned, and she'd lost a lot of the "bounce" she'd originally headed outside with. She'd gotten car horns, cheers, waves, bottles of water handed through car windows, and, once, change thrown at her. The sheriff arrived at the lab about as disgruntled as a man can get.

"Does she know what this is doing to the department's PR?" He demanded of Ecklie, who was squirming visibly. "Get her in this building!"

"If you want to blow your next election by being seen trucking her in here like a sack of flour, be my guest," Ecklie returned. "You'd be lucky if she didn't slap you with an assault charge for it."

"Well, let me see the document that started all this, then."

"Maybe we can run out the clock. In a few days she has to take another job, her contract here will be up and we can start over," the administrator suggested.

"And blatantly waste tax payer dollars, after she's made this much of a spectacle of the need for a union contract? I'd never get elected again, and you'll never get elected, period. Do you want to occupy that desk for the rest of your career?" the sheriff snapped. He gave the proposal a cursory scan. "I talked to Brass. She's the darling of the union crowd, and their lawyers are going to eat this up. We won't have a chance if we let her keep going out there, though. Tell her we'll compromise."

Ecklie heaved a sigh and headed down the hall and out the doors again. He found her leaning against the light post, exhausted, but the sign was still waving. She puzzled him almost endlessly, she simply didn't operate on his level at all -- no amount of ass kissing impressed her, no promise of promotion, no "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine" held sway. He began to realize that she really would stand there all day if need be, and probably all night. No doubt the lab crew would be running her food and water if this turned into an extended protest.

"Sheriff says we can reach a compromise," he grumbled.

She looked at him, unimpressed, "really. When did I give you the impression that I'd accept a compromise? Finally figure out I've got your nuts in a vice here?"

"What about your new job? We could just stall until you have to leave?" He decide there was no harm in revealing that card since the sheriff had already vetoed it.

"You won't get rid of me so easy. I'll stand here in my time off if necessary. I've gotten to respect the people who actually do the work in that building and they deserve better than the garbage you've been handing them." She took a deep drink from a water bottle. "You don't get it, do you? The entire lab suffers because of the petty power games you play with the grave shift. Do you have any self respect at all?"

"You can stand out here all you want on your time off, but for now, get back in that lab and talk to the sheriff." His tone grew impatient.

"You'd best back off with that attitude. I don't take orders from anyone, least of all professional flunkies like you." She snapped. The long day, the lack of sleep, and the heat were all combining to make her temper short.

"What's going on here?" A third voice started in. She looked over. It was Grissom -- he should have left hours ago.

A fact Ecklie noticed just as quickly, "what the hell are you doing here? I can handle this."

"Uhh-huh. I can see that you've been smoothing things over with your usual facility," he said without a trace of the sarcasm he meant. He turned to her next, "look, come back inside. Get some rest, we'll scare up some aloe for your face, and you can head right back out here if they don't cooperate."

She looked at Ecklie, completely unmoved. "You don't think a collapsed protester makes a hell of a statement?"

"I suppose in some circles," Grissom began with a pointed look at Ecklie, "but you could be in for a marathon rather than a sprint. Save your energy." He turned his back to the administrator and with a conspiratorial half smile, continued, "besides...I'd hate to lug the chess board to your hospital room while you recuperate from heat stroke, which is exactly what's going to happen if you aren't careful."

"What _are_ you still doing here, anyhow?" she asked quietly.

"Someone had to avail themselves to a damsel in a shark tank. The entire lab -- all shifts -- know what you're doing out here. We all support you. Besides, if you're half as smart as I know you are, you included a few throw away clauses in that contract for bargaining chips."

"The bargaining chips, as you call them, are for the lawyers to play with. For what its worth, I think you guys deserve all of it. In its original form." She told him. Exhaustion was beginning to win out, even over temper, though. This was going to turn into a sit-in before long..._and me without my love beads, _she thought, and laughed a little to herself.

"What's so funny?" Grissom asked.

"I don't have any love beads," she said, giggling helplessly.

"What?"

"I was just thinking how it would look if this turned into a sit in. Can I tie-dye this jacket? Maybe someone could bring me a guitar and I could sit here on the corner playing 'Kumbaya,' " she started laughing harder.

"I think you're done here." Grissom smiled, put his arm around her shoulders and led her back through the double doors, into the air conditioned building. Ecklie trailed along, looking sullen. His attitude had taken a serious nose dive since he'd been left out of the conversation.

**Chapter Six: Endgame**

The instant cold of the air conditioning almost buckled her knees as she stepped in the door. Involuntarily, she wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. People stared as she walked past. Ecklie quickly out paced them, heading back for his office to speak with the Sheriff. Meanwhile, Grissom escorted her to his office and sat her down on the couch in the corner. She couldn't stop herself sagging back into the cushions and closing her eyes.

"I'll be back," he said, with an expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace. From where she sat, she could hear him talking to people in the hall, footsteps fading away. She was past caring. Her face felt raw and tight, her arms hurt, she was sure her back would never be the same again, and although she hadn't checked, she figured the blisters on her feet must be the size of quarters. She hadn't realized how exhausted she was until she sat down, though. Her head lolled onto the back of the couch, and she let herself doze.

Footsteps approaching. She groaned, _Leave me the hell alone, _she thought. She was sick of people. _Great attitude for a community organizer, _her thoughts continued wryly. _Just how do you propose to work like this if all it takes is four weeks of one beurocrat to wear you out? _Footsteps fading, _Thank God. I don't even want anyone looking at me. I don't want to be anyone's hero. Don't wanna be in charge of anything. _Fatigue was beginning to slur even internal commentary. _Shut up._ She scolded herself. _This is what you do. Buck up. Keep swinging. You sound like a five year old. If you'd done your job better, you wouldn't have to be fighting this now._ Her perceived failure tied knots in her stomach.

Looking back she could pin point a dozen ways she could have prevented exactly this scenario. Why hadn't she taken advantage of them? Now things were up in the air, after all her hard work, and everyone's expectations, and it was her fault. She was going to let them all down. She wasn't capable of delivering what she felt they deserved. She went over and over this train of thought, felt it burning a groove in her mind.

Footsteps again. This time approaching. Someone was standing next to her. "Here. Put this on your face."

She opened one eye a crack and saw him standing over her, an almost-smile warring with concern on his face. Quickly burying her discontent, she asked "what are you grinning at?" She hoped she sounded like her normal, ornery self.

"A one-woman strike?" he asked. "Are you sure you want to invest yourself that way?" he sat down on the table in front of the couch.

"What else can I do?" she was honestly confused.

"Move on. Go to your new job. I mean it, put this on your face. I have some water for you, too. You're lucky..."

She just shook her head, "I don't move on until I'm finished. And thank you, but I'm fine."

"Dammit," he said under his breath. Her jaw dropped as he grabbed a finger full of aloe and smeared it on her nose and forehead. "You're stubborn, you know that?"

"I've been told a time or two," she laughed. "Seriously, I'm getting too old for this crap."

"You know how to hold a proper sit-in; I'd say you're definitely getting too old for those kind of antics."

"Watch yourself!" she warned. "A gentleman doesn't poke fun at a lady's age or weight."

"So you admit you're a lady?" He'd wound the argument neatly around. She had no idea how he usually did so, but it was the same when they played chess. It drove her nuts.

"I'm pleading the fifth," she returned lamely, and let her eyes close again.

He sighed. "Where do you live?" he sounded almost resigned.

"Why?"

"Because. You aren't fit to drive, and I've been here long enough already. If they aren't going to snag you into negotiations right away, then I'm taking you home."

"That really isn't necessary. Just let me sit here a few minutes..."

The Sheriff stepped into the office. Grissom cut him off before he approached her, "can I help you?" he asked.

"Actually, I need to speak to Ms. Goldman." Atwater said, a sour look fleeting over his features.

"Its 'Miss', thank you," she griped from the couch, sitting up and taking a hefty drink of water.

"Fine, Miss Goldman. Your display this morning has put the lab in a very precarious position. It was very damaging for our PR. My phone has been ringing non stop," he started. Grissom just stepped back, making himself as unobtrusive as possible.

"The lab, huh?" she returned with a raised eyebrow. "I jeopardized the entire lab by standing up for what's right? You sure I didn't place your political aspirations in jeopardy? You aren't the lab, no matter what your ego tells you."

"Well, of course," his tone was becoming patronizing. She'd read enough about Atwater to realize he was a shrewd politician and to watch her step. "What you must understand, Miss Goldman..."

She realized she should watch her step; should carefully formulate her responses, but she was tired, she was hungry, her head hurt...her patience was tapped. Her capacity for diplomacy used up. Her irritation boiled to the surface and she cut him off, "cut the crap. Have you looked over the proposal or not?"

Atwater looked slightly taken aback. He had walked in to talk to her, expecting to go through the usual subtle dance of negotiations and political maneuvering. Her direct attack rocked him on his foundations. "Briefly...I admit that Conrad took a little more liberty with it than I thought was necessary," he stumbled slightly and was trying to regain his composure.

She shifted to sit further forward on the couch, her posture steely straight, not letting the Sheriff break eye contact with her for so much as a second. She continued going straight for the throat, "how fast can you go over the proposal?"

"Well, I'll need to take it back to my office..."

"Naw!" she replied with a short bark of laughter that was totally devoid of humor, "there's no reason for you to make all that extra effort. I'm sure there's a perfectly comfortable place for you to sit down in the break room to go over it. I'll make the coffee and you can read the document in the environment in which it was written. I think it'll add a little something to the enjoyment." She couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but her words turned biting, "can you honestly look at the people who work in this lab and tell them you don't think they deserve that contract? Look every tech, investigator, and officer, in their eyes, and say that you are doing the best you can for them?"

Atwater was looking distinctly uncomfortable. She just continued, verbally battering the man relentlessly. "I think you're here to save your ego. I think you're here to do damage control. Can't have the voters thinking you aren't in tune with the needs of the community, can we? How ever will you run a campaign for mayor at that rate? And how will 'Conrad'" she twisted his name so that it sounded like a curse, "run to take you place? You think I haven't figure out that the only way he's getting out from behind that desk is to get elected to office? Do you think I'm stupid?" Her words grew sharper as she went.

"Well, of course, we have to consider the constituents," he started.

"Stop," she held up a hand. "Just stop right there. I am finished. If you want to pat someone on the head and try to explain the intricacies of local and office politics, go find an intern. If you want someone to kiss your ass, I suggest you go back to 'Conrad's' office. You won't get any of it here," she continued, "here's the situation, Rory," she emphasized her use of his first name, "I've got you over a barrel, whether you like it or not. If you think you can alter that document to fit your ideals and discredit me, its too late. I've got a copy on line and one going to Oregon via certified mail to the guy who recommended me for the job. It sounds like you aren't terribly familiar with the story of how I got this contract. It wasn't for being the lowest bidder."

The sheriff shook his head. "I got this job because the union reps in Oregon recommended me to the union reps and the mayor here. That would kinda be your boss, now wouldn't it? Well, there it is. So go right on ahead. Try to play games with me. See how far it gets you. Even after I leave to go to work for the Youth Center, I will still spend my weekends doing my homework and keeping my ears open for the information I need to bury you and your darling 'Conrad.' I'll make it my business. I suggest you just sign off on the original document and take your lumps like a good politician."

Atwater stared at her in shock. Grissom stared at her in shock. She sat back on the couch, exhausted.

"What?" she shot at the sheriff, impatiently. "What are you waiting for? Shoo!" She waved her hand imperiously.

The sheriff stammered a little. "And I'd better hear that that proposal gets signed in its original state. I _will_ be checking back on that. Now run along. You have reading to do!"

As soon as he was gone, she sighed, "well, that was fun."

"Why didn't you just say that in the first place?" Grissom was shaking his head. She looked at him and couldn't decipher, either from tone or expression, what he was thinking.

"Say what?" she asked.

"You could have told Ecklie how you got the job your first night here and avoided a lot of this. In fact, you probably would have had him pandering to you and kissing your ass the whole time." His expression was still unreadable.

"Because. I wanted to do the job on my own merits. I don't like pulling rank on people, for lack of a better way to put it. Unless I'm dealing with some pompous blowhard who thinks they can sweep me under the rug like that." She replied, cocking her head to the side.

To her surprise, and to the surprise of people passing by the office, the graveyard supervisor sat back on his desk and just laughed.

**Chapter Seven: Giving In**

They were half way to her apartment when her stomach rumbled. "Excuse me! Guess I'll be hitting the pop tarts before I get to sleep!" She laughed at herself a little bit. How's this for unlikely? A forty year old woman, keeping hours college kids would envy, dining on pop tarts, getting paid in peanuts. Must give her room mates a whole lot of faith in the ideal that a college education is supposed to help them land better, more secure, jobs. She wasn't even sure if the power bill had gotten paid. She _thought_ she remembered leaving the money on the kitchen counter...her brow furrowed in concentration. It wasn't like her to miss bills like that, but the last two weeks had been crazy. _Yummm. Raw pop tarts,_ she thought in a sarcastic turn, wondering if the power was even still on.

"Pop tarts? You're serious," he grimaced. "How long since you had a decent meal?" She caught him looking at her from behind the side of his sunglasses.

She pursed her lips, seriously considering the question. "Ummmm...no fair asking me when I'm this tired?" she ventured, hoping to dodge the topic.

"In other words, you don't remember," he almost sounded like he was scolding her. She could almost hear the gears in his mind turning. He kept glancing at her, the expression on his face one of indecision.

She tried not to look too sheepish, but felt her head sinking down between her shoulders anyway. It occurred to her she couldn't even discern where one day started and the other ended anymore -- the were all just a big blurry wash of activity in her mind. _Thank God I keep notes in my calendar,_ she thought, her mind going to the report she was going to have to write on her activities and accomplishments.

He pulled the SUV into a parking lot, turned around, and headed back the way they'd come. "Where are you going?" She asked, turning to look at him. She couldn't help a note of exasperation in her voice. She wanted to go home, and sleep. Forget the stinkin' pop tarts. Forget the noisy room mates. Forget everything. She didn't need anyone looking after her diet, or anything else.

"You need to eat and a decent place to rest," he said simply. Apparently coming to a decision, he heaved a sigh and squaring his shoulders. "And you should take a shower, too."

"What, now I stink?" she tried to joke. "I can't afford to go out anywhere to eat. I'm absolutely broke. In fact, I'm not sure how I'm going to find another place next month with the lag between paychecks," she caught herself rambling.

"I'll take care of breakfast, we'll be at my place in about fifteen minutes," he started, "and after all that pacing around outside in the sun, you don't smell like a bed of roses."

His tone indicated that his mind was made up and that he wouldn't be budged. She was stunned, but covered with a look of mock indignation, "well, that's just fine. First you pick on my age, now I smell bad. You sure know how to charm a girl, ya know that? You never even let me win at chess!"

"Would you rather I had?"

"Well, no. Then I'd have had to let you win at pool," she admitted. "And I probably do smell like a goat. But I don't see what good a shower is going to do me when I don't have fresh clothes." She looked at him a little smugly, thinking her argument was air tight.

"You keep extra clothes in your car?" She nodded. "Well, we'll just have to swing through and pick them up."

_Shit. _She just shook her head. He had it all sewn up. Every time. It was unnerving. She was very much used to knowing exactly where she stood and where she was going and what the score was at all times. She had it all under control -- or at least she took pains to ensure that it looked that way. She was warm and friendly and even open, in a way. But underneath all that, there was the very private side of her that _no one_ saw. She felt her stomach drop when she considered that he had somehow ferreted that out.

"I take it there's no arguing about this," she said as they idled beside her car and she fished out her keys.

He gave her a stern look and she rolled her eyes, "fine," she said, dragging her body from the SUV to the trunk of her car, where she grabbed the duffel bag she kept on hand at all times. She heaved herself and the bag into the front seat with an audible groan. It wasn't long before she was dozing as they headed out of town.

"Hey. Rip van Winkle. We're here," a hand on her shoulder woke her up with a start. She looked around and beyond the open garage door, she saw a minimal yard, a small flight of concrete steps, probably leading to the front door. He smiled a little, "didn't mean to scare you."

"I'm fine," she said drowsily, forcing her eyes to open the rest of the way and getting her bearings.

They stepped into the house from the door that opened from the garage. The house was sparsely furnished and decorated, but the pieces that were there spoke of comfort and quality. She instantly gravitated to the bookshelves, and as was her habit, she let her mind spin for a moment as she tried to read all the titles at once. She saw books about everything from philosophy and art history to basic home repair and physics. Knowledge and ideas had always been a greater high for her than anything provided by any drug. She could lose herself in a library for days -- if she had ever found one that would allow her to, she would pitch a tent and stay there until she had pored over every page in their collection. She had visited he Library of Congress once and thought her mind would short circuit.

He watched her gazing at the volumes with something close to reverence and just shook his head and headed into the kitchen to start coffee. "How do you like your steak?" he called, snapping her out of her reverie.

"Medium rare," she answered, turning to make her way to the kitchen, even though her mind kept pulling her back to the bookshelves. "Can I help out with anything? Really, I'm not a total putz. I can cook. I just haven't had a chance lately," _why the hell are you making excuses?_ she thought, irritated with herself, but she heard herself continue, "you don't have to do anything that fancy, anyhow. Its too much trouble."

"I'll be the judge of that," he said, setting a pan on the stove to heat. After looking at the rest of the furnishings, she was hardly surprised (although a little envious) that the cookware was professional grade. "You won't cut off a finger if I let you slice up some mushrooms, will you?"

"Of course not! What do you take me for?" she replied, scoping out the wooden block that held a collection of knives, from a large chef's knife to the smallest paring knife. She selected one and tested its weight in her hand. She had decent kitchen ware, all in storage at this point, of course, but nothing this good. The piece felt like an extension of her arm. She relished the thought of working with it. She realized that she was almost drooling.

Upon slicing her way through a small package of fresh mushrooms, she went to the sink and immediately washed and dried the piece. In the block was a sharpener, and she gave it a few swipes on each side to bring the blade back to "true."

"_That_...was fun." She said, grinning, as she slid the knife back into the block. "Anything else?" She arched her eyebrows.

"Why don't you go grab that shower, second door on the left."

"You don't trust me in your kitchen?" she teased. "Oh, yeah, that whole smelling like a goat thing. Got it." She couldn't resist saluting smartly as she headed back to the entrance to grab her overnight bag.

The hot shower worked most of the kinks out of her lower back and legs, but felt like fire on her sunburned face and the blisters on her feet. She gingerly lifted one leg up to look at the damage. The swelling took up the entire ball of her foot along the first two toes. She hissed between her teeth when she looked at the other one and saw the same thing. Years of dance classes had inured her to blisters, she'd barely noticed them. Throwing on her spare tee shirt and jeans, she bustled around the bathroom, hanging up towels, rinsing the tub and sink, wiping the counter. One would never have known she'd been in there. Finally she wandered back out to the kitchen.

"Have you got a needle and some alcohol?" she asked. He jumped at the sound of her voice. _Good to see him off balance for once_, she thought smugly.

"Yeah, why?" Then he noticed she was carefully standing on the outside edge of both feet. Nodding, he reduced the heat under the mushrooms and wandered back to the bathroom, fishing in a drawer and the medicine cabinet to get the requested items.

"How bad?" he asked.

"Nothing huge. I've had worse," she made light of it, already swabbing the needle with alcohol and tissue at the ready. She propped her foot up on the counter and gingerly punctured the swelling, carefully draining it and drying it. She repeated the same procedure on her other foot. Again, she went to pains to make sure each item went back to its appropriate place.

The kitchen smelled fantastic -- garlic and onion with sautéing mushrooms, and steak. Her stomach growled again in response. He was putting the finishing touches on a salad. "You've had worse," his voice tinged with disbelief.

"Yeah. When I was dancing. I used to get worse ones all the time," his eyebrows shot up. Dancing had an entirely different connotation in sin city. "An ill-fitting pair of pointe shoes is the worst torture I can imagine," she clarified, allowing herself an inward chuckle at his surprised expression. She watched him work, feeling a little useless. "Hey, I'll set the table. Where do you keep things?" She couldn't be positive, but she thought she caught him glancing at her legs as she stood on tip-toe to reach the plates.

Dinner was the best she'd eaten, probably in the entire time she'd been staying in Vegas. She sat back in her chair at the dining room table, sipping her coffee. She couldn't figure out what was keeping her going at this point, but with a good meal and a shower, her lack of sleep wasn't weighing on her as heavily as when they'd arrived.

"Thank you," she said. "I haven't eaten like that in a month," she told him. She stood up and began clearing the dishes, taking them to the sink. Again, surprise registered on his face when she automatically started running water and washing plates and utensils, setting them in the drying rack when she was done. The setting sun was coming directly in the kitchen window, emphasizing the red sheen of her chestnut hair. "What? You've never seen anyone wash dishes before? You are aware that little elves don't come in and do it while you're asleep..." she gave him a crooked smile.

"No," he drawled, "I usually do them myself. Look, you should go and sit down, let me handle that." He got up and went to the sink, trying to casually elbow her out of the way. He jumped back when he stuck his hand under the water; she had it cranked all the way to hot.

He stood there, shaking his hand, muttering. "Jesus! There is a cold water tap, too."

She tried, but couldn't seem to keep herself from laughing. "That'll teach you to try to shove me out of the way. I'm almost done, anyhow. Go on and relax."

Not used to being laughed at, much less bossed around, in his own house, he was too off balance to argue with her. He wandered into the living room and to the stereo, queuing the CD player to Rachmaninoff. He was seriously beginning to wonder what he'd gotten himself into inviting her to dinner. Catherine and Dr. Robbins had both encouraged him to do it, with conspiratorial smiles they didn't even try to hide. Catherine had even offered to set them up, citing that she'd caught the other woman ogling him. At that thought, he'd dug his heels in. They'd enjoyed their time together, but it was a casual friendship, he'd insisted.

That afternoon, however, seeing how tired she'd been after going to war with the administration, his conscience had nagged him to do something. She'd often complained about the state of her apartment and her room mates, it wasn't a place to go to relax. When her stomach growled and she mentioned that she was having pop tarts for dinner on the way to her place in the car and that had cinched it. He propped his feet up on the coffee table and let his thoughts wander. She was educated, intelligent, cultured, street smart, savvy, passionate, articulate. She was a decent hand in the kitchen, and played an okay game of chess. She looked at books like she worshipped them. She ate like a horse. He chuckled a little, remembering how she had demolished her steak, salad, and the better part of a loaf of French bread. Metabolism was a wonderful thing, he decided. And yet, he felt he didn't really know her. He'd gotten glimpses...an unguarded moment when she didn't think anyone was watching. A mumbled comment. Her tone of voice. All these things she covered just as quickly as she realized they'd been exposed, though. It frustrated him -- his analytical mind was used to observing people and figuring them out.

She dropped onto the couch, and taking her cue from him, also propped her feet up on the coffee table. "Thank you, again," she said.

"You're welcome. I should have done it sooner. Nothing like cooking for someone who appreciates it," he said, slowly returning from his intellectual meanderings.

"You'll have to give me the chance to return the favor when I get settled in somewhere a little more permanent," she started. "God, I hate moving," she grumped.

"I could send Greg to help you..." he smiled.

"He does have too much energy," she conceded, but went on seriously, "but I'd feel guilty using him like that. I'd have to pay him back somehow, and right now I haven't got anything. I couldn't even give him a beer."

"Somehow I'm sure he'll take a rain check. When do you start your other job?" He remembered she'd told him, but couldn't call up the date.

"Not for another two weeks. The beginning of next month. I'm thinking about heading down there anyhow, just to get a feel for the place," she told him.

He turned to look at her, "do you ever get enough?" he asked, bluntly.

She laughed at him again, "this from the guy who hasn't taken a vacation since dirt was rocks?" _Ha! Teach you to tease me about **my** age!_ she thought. "And honestly, no, I don't. I get tired, I get frustrated, I even get burnt out once in a while, but I never get enough."

"I take time off..." he stammered a little. "I went to a convention in Michigan a couple years ago."

She fixed him with a knowing look, "you mean the cockroach races? I heard about that one. And you took four days, and went straight back to the office when you got back."

"How do you know?" he couldn't conceal his surprise this time.

"Your team has been ratting you out left and right," she said, smirking. "I got all the gossip that's worth listening to. Seriously, they're starting to get worried about you. You need to take a break."

He sighed and settled back into his place on the couch, frowning and mumbling something about Benedict Arnold. It was his job to take care of the team, and he took it seriously, even if he didn't always get their evaluations done on time. It didn't sit well that they were worrying about him.

"You know, you _can_ take some time off without the whole place coming to a screeching halt," she pushed, then lightened her tone, "although I can't say I'd be as confident if Judy took substantial time off."

The shy, tiny blonde ran the entire show from the reception desk. Without her, communications would come to a grinding halt. Paperwork would be irretrievably lost. Schedules and transfers and memos would not get delivered. And she did it all so unobtrusively that most people took her for granted, forgetting she was there. In fact, it was Ecklie over looking her that triggered the days events in the first place. He reminded himself to take her some theater tickets or something to show she was appreciated, but in the forefront of his troubled thoughts were the fact that the team was spending time and energy concerning themselves for his sake.

"You still with me?" she asked.

"Yeah. Do you know if Judy likes opera?"

"That was random. I think so. I'm not sure. I know she likes hockey."

"Judy likes hockey?" he asked, incredulous.

Vanessa chuckled, "yup. Who'd have thought. Nice, quiet, unassuming Judy, cheering when guys get their teeth knocked out?"

"Why is the team so worried about me?" he finally asked, deciding to just come straight out with it.

"They think you put in too many hours, for starters," she began, "Sara told me you lectured her on getting herself out of the lab and developing a personal life. You should really practice what you preach." She continued, "they see you sacrificing yourself for the lab, they see you getting tired, and they care for you, so they're concerned. Much like you would be for them."

He just shook his head, trying to sort it out. He prided himself on being aware of what was going on in the lab at all times. So how had he missed this little tidbit? Then he turned the tables on her again, "pot calling kettle," he scolded. "For the last four weeks, you usually get there before I do, and leave after I do. Even on those days you went to breakfast with the team, I know you went home and worked. And now you have a two week layover between jobs so you're just going to throw yourself into the next one before your contract picks up?"

"Yeah," it was a lame response and she knew it. "I wasn't going to go tomorrow. Does that help?"

"Not really," quiet settled between them briefly.

"Besides, first thing I have to do is find a new place. I only signed a three month agreement for the crash pad," she started. "God, I hate moving," she repeated.

As the sun faded from the horizon, she settled back into the couch and dozed off.

**Chapter Eight: Vulnerable**

_It was dark and she was surrounded by muffling, heavy fabric. Ten feet in front of her, the light was intense. It was blinding. It was hot. It smelled of paint and wood rosin and dust. She could feel the butterflies starting in her stomach and quickly squelched them. This wasn't about her. It was long past the time for nerves. It would either come together, or it wouldn't. Rationally, her mind told her that, even if it didn't, it wouldn't shift the earth on its axis. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself by staring into the dark on the other side of the light, an exact replica of the area she was standing in. It seemed to be on the other side of the world._

_There was a fluttering of fabric to her left. She saw her group making their way toward her, the backdrop fluttering in time with their movements. She stood back and looked at them, and everything seemed fine. Costumes were good -- the fit perfectly. Makeup, check. Hair, check. 'See,' she told herself, 'you have nothing to worry about.'_

_But the nagging wouldn't go away. Her shoulders were knotting up. Her stomach was doing somersaults. Something was wrong. She could feel it, but she couldn't pin point it. And soon it really would be too late. She scrambled to figure out what the problem was while she could still pull a last minute out of her sleeve._

_Music started and her stomach dropped. Too late. She pasted a smile on her face and watched them take their places on the stage, even while her mind continued its frantic spinning. She wanted to call them back stage, to keep them safe from whatever it was, but her voice wouldn't work. She heard the first cry from the audience and saw something thrown up on stage. Then another shout. And another and another. Until the entire theater was overwhelmed with the angry shouts and curses of the audience turned mob. Objects were flying. One of the people on stage looked at her, terrified. Then, as if on cue, they all turned. Their eyes were horrible. She'd never imagined such fear existed in a human being. And they needed her. She had to do something to stop the riot and keep them safe. But she couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She was totally paralyzed, every fiber of her being clamoring to **do** something, **anything**..._

Hey!" A hand on her shoulder shook her hard, and her eyes flew open, wide with terror. She looked around and didn't recognize anything around her. She didn't recognize the man standing in front of her. The room spun, and her breathing was shallow and labored. She thought her heart would palpitate its way right out of her chest. It was tight. That was why she couldn't breathe, she realized. She was incapacitated by the panic she felt. It consumed her every thought and motion, keeping her rooted to her spot, even though instinct told her to run or lash out.

"Hey!" a little louder, and the hand shook her again, a little harder. He knelt in front of her. "What's going on?"

The gray spots that were dancing in front of her eyes were beginning to recede. Blessed reality began to re-establish itself in her mind. She quickly moved from terrified to mortified. It was only a dream; ironically a repeat performance by her subconscious. She'd had that one before. Never quite so vivid, but it was familiar. Her head dropped between her knees while she regained her breath, and her hands swept her hair up off the back of her neck. It always tamed the anxiety-demon if she got some fresh air.

She owed him a response, even though she'd have much rather crawled off and hid somewhere. "Nothing," she mumbled. "Its okay."

He hadn't taken his eyes off her, and she was a little startled to see concern there. She'd expected a lot of things: irritation, pity, contempt. She'd always considered these attacks a form of weakness, and they always struck when she was most exhausted. Hence, she'd kept herself going for as long as possible, hoping to return to her own room, so she could shake it off by herself. He was waiting for her to say more, she realized, her stomach sinking for real this time.

"Its stupid. I'll just get my stuff and call a cab, get out of your hair." She still hadn't looked at him directly, instead sneaking glances from her doubled over position on the couch.

His brow furrowed, "no, you don't need to do anything like that. But I think I ought to know what that was..."

"Just a silly panic attack. I get them once in a while. I've got something for it in my purse," she sat up and looked around for the luggage in question. "Look," she continued, looking at him with a combination of chagrin and resignation on her face, "really, I can go home. I'm embarrassed enough, and I'm sure you're uncomfortable..."

"Isn't your lease up in a few days? You really think you can find a place that quick?" he asked. She couldn't say for sure, but she thought he was hiding a smirk.

"What's your point?" a little of her usual spirit crept back into her voice.

"Just an observation," he teased, realizing that the best way to get her back to herself was to push her a little, just enough to get her temper to flare so that it would eclipse her embarrassment.

"Yeah, well, I'm not here to be an imposition. You don't need to worry yourself about my living situation." She told him flatly, getting up from the couch and finding her purse. She was noisily rifling through its contents and produced a prescription bottle. Cursing as she fiddled with the childproof lid, she blew a stray lock of hair off her forehead. Finally she got the bottle open, popped the pill dry, and gave a hard swallow. Then, just as soon as her bravado returned, it faded slightly. "But you probably didn't know what you were getting into when you made it and that isn't fair, so this is your chance to back out." It still sounded like a challenge, although she wouldn't quite look directly at him.

She returned to her purse, dropping the bottle back in and searching for something else. "Do you mind if I step outside for a cigarette?" she looked at him with a little challenge in her eyes again.

"I suppose not," he conceded, "but you know you could probably accomplish just as much with some deep breathing exercises right now."

"That's all well and good, but deep breathing isn't ever so slightly self destructive," she returned, a shade of bitterness to her words. She found her way through the sliding glass door to the small patio on the back of the house. It was peaceful. Traffic hummed in the distance, and the air was cool and smelled good. A barbecue pit dominated one side of the area, and she sat down next to it, leaning into it with her back and stretching her legs out in front of her. The first few drags on the cigarette were all she needed -- she looked at the thing in her fingers, realizing she would probably never be completely quit of them. At moments like this, she wasn't sure if there was anything else on earth that would help her reclaim a calm frame of mind as quickly.

He couldn't figure her out. At all. He decided this while he watched her from the kitchen window, sagging into the bleached white brick of the seldom used barbecue pit. Intelligent and educated, but sent reeling over what she must surely know is a biochemical imbalance. And, from what he could tell, expecting him to be repulsed by it, as if she were defective in some vital, fundamental fashion. His curiosity was definitely getting the better of him...he couldn't stand a puzzle he couldn't sort out. This train of thought led him to quietly step out onto the patio with her.

"That must have been a bad one," he said quietly. Her shadow nodded at him, and gray smoke swirled against the inky black sky. Her shoulders were still tight -- he could tell just by looking at her. Her entire posture had changed. She shifted uncomfortably, rolling her neck back and forth. "It's not silly," he said in the same quiet voice. Now she was leaning forward over her outstretched legs to stretch her lower back. Who knew a forty year old woman could be so limber? "Do you know what triggers them?"

"Fatigue. Stress. That's usually the case. Look, I'm really sorry about that. I was even kind of expecting it and I could have dosed myself pre-emptively, so I wouldn't be such a bother, but I just dozed off," her tone was rushed, as if things would be better if she just spat the words out as fast as she could.

"Its really okay. As long as we're laying our cards on the table, I'm prone to migraines," he hesitated, unsure if he should go further.

"Ugh," she shook her head sympathetically while squashing her cigarette and leaving the remains in the barbecue pit. "I'll do something a little more...hygienic...with that tomorrow. An old coffee can or something similar with a lid on it. I don't smoke often and I try not to be rude about it."

"Its fine. I never have time to use it anyway," he replied. Truth be told, he hardly ever saw this side of the house at all. He hardly remembered what it looked like.

"That's beside the point. This is your space, and it would be rude of me to litter," she responded, her words still slightly clipped and distracted, as she stood up to go back in.

He let her in first, and the door slid quietly shut on its track behind him. She was already at the sink, almost compulsively washing her hands. Her display of imperfection was weighing on her. She could feel her shoulders tightening, as if she had an anvil strapped to her back, carrying it uphill. A chink in her armor, a small crumble in her carefully constructed walls. Thoughts like this made the panic threaten to come back, and she squashed them as quickly as she could. Yet, trying not to dwell on it was like trying not to talk about the proverbial elephant in the room. The more she focused on just getting past what had happened, the more her mind turned it over and over, analyzing it, trying to figure out her dream and his response.

She rinsed her hands under the hot water and scrubbed them with a dish towel to dry them, as if she could wash the dream away. It was clinging to the back of her mind and in the pit of her stomach, she still felt the anger of the crowd and the desperate fear of the people on stage. All directed at her, she should have been able to do something, they were going to be injured or worse and it was her fault they were up there in the first place, and she just stood there, with her mouth hanging open...

Her gray eyes were still distant and dark as she stepped into the living room and sat down on the couch again. He followed her, racking his brain for some way to distract her and snap her out of whatever this was, and wondering what exactly she'd seen in her subconscious during her panic. Would it help if he told her about his mother, to put them on a level playing field again? She probably felt that migraines were pretty weak in comparison to waking up, seemingly, terrified of everything around her. He was more than passingly familiar with her personality _type_: driven, perfectionistic, passionate, given to obsessiveness, energetic, described in some circles as Type A, although he never gave much credence to lumping people together in general categories like that. He'd come to admire her work ethic, her ability to reach out to others, to connect with them, almost instinctively. She had an intellect and sense of humor that kept him on his toes, and she was naturally analytical. And now he was realizing there was a whole, almost subterranean, layer to her. The inner person who was subject to all the demons 'normal' people dealt with, day in and day out. He'd suspected it was there, but hadn't guessed the form.

He went to kitchen and poured a glass of bourbon, and walked into the living room. "Would something to drink help?" he asked.

She looked at him, her eyes still vague for a second, but gaining their focus quickly. "You drink tequila, right?" he smiled, remembering their conversation in the bar.

"I suppose, as long as you'll still respect me in the morning," she joked, more at herself than with him.

He returned a few moments later with what must have been a triple. She slugged down a shot's worth and settled back into the couch again, letting her mind wander with the music coming from the stereo. He turned to face her and after a moment, decided nothing would be lost if he approached her directly. Curiosity had taken over. "What were you dreaming about?" he asked. Maybe if he showed her he was comfortable enough to ask her, she'd be comfortable enough to answer.

She just arched an eyebrow at him.

"Seriously. I'd like to know. And I'll still respect you in the morning," his tone was slightly joking, but his eyes held more curiosity and compassion than anything else. She realized she may be seeing a side of him that didn't get out of its cage very often. She'd noticed over the last four weeks his propensity to bury himself in work. She'd heard stories about how, on occasion, the members of the graveyard shift had flung his seeming emotional detachment in his face. Thinking about it pulled the corners of her mouth down involuntarily -- she'd been subject to similar treatment once upon a time. She studied him for a moment while she pondered what she knew of him, weighing it with the theories she had developed in response to his seemingly elusive nature.

She shrugged. _What the hell._ She drank another shot of tequila from the glass and swirled the remaining golden liquid clockwise in the glass. She took a deep breath to steady herself, and began to talk about her dream. Being hidden in the darkness of the wings of the stage. Feeling the burn of the lights overhead. The feel of smooth wood under her shoes. The group of people, the audience, the looks on their faces...

She was shaking a little when she was done. "Who were they?" he asked, perceptively.

"I was in charge of community education and outreach with a political organization for a while just after college; they were the other members of the group. Even before they put me in charge, I was pretty much running things, single handedly keeping the committee going, since the organization was having internal problems and had to re-establish itself in the community. I couldn't wait to get rid of that title and go back to being second banana," she finished. She sipped at her tequila, savoring its spreading warmth, making what was left in the glass last.

He was just staring at her, with his brow furrowed; she wondered what he was thinking. She had to admit, but only to herself, that her chest felt less tight having spoken aloud about the dream. It seemed to purge the heaviness of it from her heart, and the images were growing hazy and indistinct in her memory.

"So, are you sure you still respect me?" she said glancing at the clock on the mantle, "its almost morning," she finished, noting the time was near midnight.

He cleared his throat before he spoke, "of course." He hesitated, a little reluctant to step into this more intimate territory. After an internal pep talk, he started, "Actually, I respect you more than before. To deal with anxiety and still get out there and do the things you do, to become as accomplished as you have, takes great courage."

She looked surprised, an expression she would normally have hidden with others, but the tequila was working on her nervous system, making her more pliable emotionally. "You really think so? I've always thought of it as an imperfection to be buried with all my other personal failings."

"I just told you I respect you, why would I lie to you?" he responded simply.

"You really do? Respect me, that is?" confusion was written clearly in her expression.

"Yes, I do. Professionally, I respect your commitment to others, the way you fought for what you felt was needed, and the way you handled yourself with integrity when others would have sold out."

She mulled that over for a moment, finishing the last drops of her tequila. There was an intuitive tug at her mind that told her he was holding back. She continued to brace herself for the worst, "Its easier to hang on to my ethics than drown in bullshit. At least my conscience is clear," she responded. "What else?"

"What do you mean, what else?" he asked warily.

"You're holding out on me. Come on, I can take criticism. It wouldn't be the first time." Her face felt very warm. She knew she would regret asking, but she couldn't seem to keep her mouth shut.

He was unabashedly shocked. She was working her way down a single track, seemingly convinced that everyone else should be as disappointed in her as she was. "Criticism," he repeated. "There's nothing to criticize. You're human. Just like the rest of us. That might not be good enough for you, but its okay with me."

She decided, with the help of the alcohol to loosen her tongue, that it was time to call him out. "This from you, who hides his feelings from those closest to him," she started. "Practice what you preach. I've watched you kick yourself for not being perfect. You aren't good enough to hide from me." She shook a finger at him, smiling.

He looked down and laughed a little, "you're more perceptive than most."

She continued, "You know what I've perceived? You're compassionate. You simply demonstrate it differently. You have a wonderful sense of humor. You hold yourself to almost unattainable standards. You're strong, and forgiving, and gentle. So there."

"Cite your source," he replied.

"You're good, ya know that? Like I haven't spent the last four weeks with you and your team, going over files, talking, getting to know you. I am an advocate at heart, but I don't go so far as to hold a public demonstration, under today's conditions, for just anyone."

"Oh, really?"

"Really. I envy you, in a way. I don't have any regrets about my work, don't get me wrong. But the nature of the beast is rather unstable. You never know if you're jumping into something that can swallow you whole. People depend on you and you could fail them. I never quite know if I'm gonna be in over my head from one day to the next. You know who you are and where you are and what you're doing." Her voice was quiet and slightly distracted.

"Interesting...that sounds remarkably like what I deal with day to day," he started, "on top of being the last voice of the victim, searching for the truth that will bring closure to families, I have a team of people that I know will look to me if they hit a wall, and I'm never sure if I'll do any better with it than they will. Then there's the personal element -- people bring their lives to their work, whether you like it or not."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that what your job is easier than mine," she turned and looked directly at him, "its just that...oh, I don't know...you probably know this, too. If I fail, I'm not only failing myself, and I always find myself wondering if I'll be able to get back up again. But that would mean leaving my whole life, my self, behind. Needless to say, I don't deal with failure well." She finished with a self-deprecating laugh.

"Was all that so hard to talk about?" he gave her a wry smile.

"Actually, yes," she told him pointedly, "and I'd like to know why I'm the only one unburdening myself here. God knows you don't need any more than you have."

He shifted uncomfortably, dropping his gaze. She continued, "come on. What's good for the goose is good for the gander, as my Grandmother used to tell me. Of course, she also used to call me a little shit. She was right on both counts."

"What are my chances of dodging this conversation now?"

"None. Eric calls me his 'pit bull' because I don't quit until I get results."

He laughed at that, "an apt description. I wish he could have seen you today."

She diverted for a second, "you talk like you know the man. What gives?"

"He called to ask how you were doing your second day working with the grave team," he told her with a distinct gleam in his eye. "And yes, I would have 'ratted you out,' as you so delicately put it."

"Hmph, figures. He always did feel like he had to look out for me. Back to the subject at hand. Unload, dammit. I'm every bit as stubborn as you are, so you might as well."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, while the CD player switched to Pink Floyd's "The Wall." She heard him heave a deep sigh and when he finally spoke, it was very quietly. He spoke in a vein similar to hers, about being in charge, the expectations of others, and fear of failure. But she had a hunch that wasn't all there was. "It gets kind of tiresome being viewed by others as..." he was at a loss for words.

"Super competent," she finished for him.

"Precisely. Where did you get that?"

"Youth worker seminar a few years ago. 'The Myth of Super Competence,' the guy talked about how our perception of how others see us undermines our work. I know I'm guilty of falling into that trap, but it also looks like its not just for activists," she explained. "Sucks being on a pedestal, huh?"

He laughed, nodding. She continued, walking a fine line between prying and encouraging, "there's more and I know it. I can tell by looking at you. Out with it." _Wow, could ya have a little less tact?_ she scolded herself. "I didn't mean to be so blunt," she apologized immediately, "but I can start fishing through my notes and asking about stuff until we get to the bottom of things."

Sensing that she needed to give as much as take, and knowing full well that she would do what she said, he stuffed his reluctance in a corner and went forward, "how is it that the team continually sees me as unfeeling, but you have it all figured out?"

"I'm just good like that," she smirked. "Seriously, though, most people, no matter how good they are, no matter what their intentions are, can't see the forest for the trees. They don't view situations as outsiders, like I did. I saw an entire picture of how you interact with them, where as they're in the middle of the interaction. They don't necessarily see you as unfeeling, though. It came up in a couple interviews, inadvertently; I think they just wish they knew you better."

He looked a little surprised at her assessment. Then he was surprised that the woman _could _surprise him. It happened rarely, and yet she seemed to be able to do it on a regular basis. She pressed on, filling in a spot that she could tell was awkward for him, "its a fine line to walk; being supervisor extraordinaire and being part of the team," she saw the tension working out of his shoulders and decided to head straight for the middle of what she knew would be a touchy subject. "Do they know you almost lost your hearing?"

There was a flash of anger in his eyes before he took a deep breath, "how do _you_ know about that?"

"There was a note about it in one of the files. Pertaining to a case where the prosecutor sent Phillip Gerard in to monitor your team's performance," she continued, "and I've read that you studied under him in Minneapolis. The whole thing made me sick to my stomach." Impulsively, she reached out and put her hand on his shoulder.

"You aren't the only one. I don't know how I worked with him for so many years and never figured out what kind of person he was. He couldn't have disappointed me more if he'd consciously worked at it," he responded, shaking his head. "Catherine is the only one who knows about my hearing, and she figured it out on her own. I suppose I thought, on some level, that I dodged that one. My mother was completely deaf long before she married my father."

She felt his shoulder muscles tense up and relax again under her hand as he spoke. She couldn't hide her anger when she replied, "and no one else needs to know. It sure as hell wasn't any of his business, the bastard," she met his gaze dead on again, "I read that and I was literally sick. I can't imagine having to trash the woman who mentored me, finding out that she wasn't what I thought she was. You dug your heels in and did it, though. In large part, because you're dedicated to the people who work with you. It wasn't just you he was insulting, it was the whole group. I can't tell you how much I respect what you did."

"You do what you have to," he said simply, regaining his composure.

"That was a bit above and beyond the call of duty. Cath actually told me about what happened in the court room, the shady communication between him and the prosecutor. I don't know if she ever told you, but she regrets how harsh she was with you that day. You think I'm kidding? I don't know many people who could have handled that whole mess as well as you did," she replied, maintaining eye contact.

"Yeah, well..." he shrugged.

"Yeah, well, nothin'. Will you just accept a compliment?" there was a jokingly gruff tone to her voice.

She was rewarded by a laugh, "if you're going to force me to."

"I think I am," she said, a little smugly, still smiling. She looked over and noticed the hands of the clock had advanced to two in the morning. She was exhausted, but changed the subject to put things on a less vulnerable footing between them. Sitting back, listening to the music, she asked, "ever get to see them in concert?"

"Pink Floyd? A couple times, why?"

"Lucky you. I've always been too tight on funds to do much concert going. Luckily, local jazz bands and college orchestras where I come from put on shows for cheap or free." They talked for a little while longer, mostly about the arts; music, literature, poetry (which he knew far better than she did), drama, opera and ballet. By the time the CD ran out, she had dozed off, sliding sideways until she was leaning on him. After long consideration, he decided to stay where he was rather than risk waking her again, so he snagged an afghan from beside the couch and threw it over them, and settled in for the night.


	2. Part 2

**Author's Note: Here's the second installment. Hope you all enjoy. Reviews are definitely welcome. This is the part where it starts to warrant its M rating, and if you aren't into some good old fashioned smut, those sections are set off by a row of slash marks//////////////////////////////////////////////. Like so. As always, thanks to Joyceanna.**

**Disclaimer: puh-lease. All I got is debt. And a cockatiel.**

**  
Part Two Early May 2005**

**Chapter Nine: Settling In**

_**Whunk!**_

Both of them started from sleep. Vanessa was searching the front room for the source of the noise, but Gil was already up and moving, cursing the paperboy for hitting the door once again. _I suppose it could be worse, _he thought, _he could land it on the roof again._

She watched as he disappeared down the short hallway and heard the door open briefly, then shut again. The paper landed on the coffee table with another loud whap. The early morning sun was slanting through the living room windows, creating a series of slanting patterns on the concrete floor. As her mind reorganized itself from sleep, she found herself mesmerized by them. As coherency reasserted itself, she looked up at him as he attempted to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

"Don't wake yourself up on my account," she told him, "you look tired. Go to bed."

He looked at her with a crooked smile, "you don't look so lively, yourself," he told her. "No," he continued, "once I'm up, I'm up. That couch isn't the best place to sleep, why don't you go to the guest room and catch a couple more hours?"

She shook her head, "unfortunately, I'm with you. I'm awake, which means I'm pretty much done for," she offered. "Hey, are you a morning shower person, or an evening shower person?"

"As subjective as the term is, morning," he replied, "why?"

"That works out well," she muttered considering her tendency to bathe when she got home from work -- an old habit from working in restaurants and cleaning houses during lean financial times. "Just wondering. Why don't you go do that and I'll get coffee started."

He was surprised to find himself nodding and turning toward his bedroom with its adjoining bath -- how had he gotten so comfortable with her being in his space so quickly? She smiled a little as she watched him amble down the hall shaking his head. She had to admit, even if only to herself in the solitude of the kitchen, that he looked kind of cute when he was rumpled. She'd been fighting back an urge to straighten his hair with her fingers. _Knock it off,_ she admonished herself as she reached into the cupboard for the coffee, only to find that it was the whole bean kind, and she would have to search for the grinder. _What are you, sixteen? _ her thoughts continued, _he's been gracious enough to give you a place to stay while you look for another apartment and here you are, treating him like a piece of eye candy. _And yet, she'd found sleeping on the couch with him more restful than many nights she'd had lately. In fact, she couldn't remember when she'd slept so well.

Her attention wandered again as she stared out the kitchen window. _A cactus garden would be nice out there, and easy to take care of._ She ran through a few of the more common varieties of flowering cacti that she knew of before she stomped on that thought, as well. _This is not a permanent arrangement,_ she reminded herself, and forced her legs to move back to the cupboards in search of the coffee grinder.

By the time he emerged from the back of the house, the coffee was well underway, and she was sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper spread out before her, scanning local government news first. She had opened the blinds and light spilled over the table. He was struck once more by how limber she was, as she sat with her legs pulled up to her chest and her chin resting on her knees.

"Hungry?" he asked, stepping into the room.

"I'm not much of a breakfast-eater," she said, looking up. "Sorry I took liberty with the paper. I was just going to look through the 'for rent' pages, but got distracted."

"As long as you didn't molest the cross word..." he warned. "How do you like your eggs?"

"Oh, its okay. I'm really not --"

"Scrambled?" he pushed.

"I'm not gonna win this one, am I?" she asked, ruefully. He crossed his arms and shook his head at her, but she saw the corners of his mouth twitching. "I surrender. Scrambled it is. But I'm doing the dishes again."

"Maybe, maybe not," he replied enigmatically, rummaging around for a frying pan. She noticed appreciatively that it was well seasoned cast iron, the black metal gleaming with an almost mirror-like finish. She found herself stepping into the kitchen on the pretense of getting coffee for the both of them, but wound up standing by the stove.

She couldn't resist. She picked up the pan, enjoying the heft of it in her hand, the way the muscles in her forearm pulled against its weight to hold it up. "Now _that_ is a sexy pan," she said.

She saw him stop short for a moment, then recover, "flattery will get you nowhere with it. Its not that kind of pan," he teased.

She laughed at his joke, "seriously. Most people don't understand how to take care of a cast iron pan any more. I find lots of them at yard sales covered in rust. My aunt would roll over in her grave if she could see them. Needless to say, I have a whole collection of restored cast iron in storage with the rest of my stuff..." she trailed off, looking almost wistfully at the pan.

"Your aunt?" He realized that even though they had discussed his family, briefly, last night, he knew nothing of hers. He cracked eggs in a bowl and started beating them with a heavy wire whisk.

"She was a cook," she started, setting a cup of coffee on the counter beside him and taking one for herself, "not a chef, mind you, but a cook. The woman was an absolute legend, though. People still talk about her bread, and pies, and the things she could do with chicken were absolutely inspired. She worked on farms and in small towns in the Midwest -- actually she followed the migrant workers for the most part. Wherever they were, she knew there would be a kitchen that needed her help."

"Is that where you learned to handle a knife?" He asked, remembering dinner the night before.

"Among other things," she smirked. "You really should let me cook for you. Nothing I make would be considered part of a 'low fat' diet, but I do pretty good...not to toot my own horn, or anything."

The sharp sizzle as the eggs hit the hot pan was always one of her favorite kitchen sounds. She turned and started setting out dishes and utensils. "Do you like pepper on your eggs?" he asked.

"Yeah, lots of it, why?"

"No reason. Why don't you go set the table," she could have sworn she saw him trying not to laugh, and she looked at him suspiciously, plates in hand. "Trust me," he finished. Which inspired her to do anything but. Her eyes narrowed, but she walked to the table, cleared the newspaper and set out dishes anyway.

When the food arrived, she pushed the eggs around on her plate experimentally, looking for any odd surprised that might be hidden in them. The surprise was hidden in plain sight, though. "Are those ants?" she said, her face no more than three inches from the plate.

He just laughed. "There are ants in these eggs," she looked up at him without lifting her head. He laughed harder. She made two conscious decisions at that point. He needed to laugh more. And she was going to eat ants. Almost defiantly, she forked the eggs into her mouth and chewed, locking her eyes with his.

"But you won't go on a roller coaster..." he teased.

"Hey, this isn't bad," she replied. "Needs a little more salt," she continued, reaching for the dish of salt on the table. "Awww. You shouldn't have," she told him, looking at the coarse flakes of salt sparkling in the bowl. "Kosher salt. You do know how to get a girl's attention, do you know that?" She batted her eyelashes.

He actually blushed a little. Then his eyes became inquisitive. "Jewish?"

"Converted in college. I speak Hebrew and Yiddish and _the gantseh magilla_," she replied with a laugh.

He looked uncomfortable, "I'm afraid the salt is probably the most kosher thing in my kitchen."

"Its not a very kosher friendly world," she reassured him. "I place dedication to people and my work in the world around me above my eating habits. Then again, I've known people who kept so kosher they were strict vegetarians. It all depends on the person," she finished.

He didn't precisely look satisfied, and made no attempt at a reply. "Really, there's nothing to worry about. I converted reform. God isn't going to strike you sterile for preparing food for me in a pan that was probably seasoned with lard. I love bacon, have been known to indulge in shell fish on occasion. Was there anything other than food that has you unsettled about this?" she felt like she was babbling, trying to smooth over a situation that wasn't anyone's fault.

"I suppose not," he finally replied, his expression still perplexed.

"Then what the hell are you looking at me like that for?" she snapped. In spite of a few good hours of sleep, she was still exhausted and her temper was a bit ragged.

"I was wondering if you would like to stay in my guest room until you find another apartment, but if you don't like to have me looking at you..." his tone was teasing, surprisingly enough.

It wasn't the first time she wished she could better tell what he was thinking, and this time she felt like an ass. She looked down at her plate. "Maybe I should fry up some crow to go with these eggs."

"That won't be necessary," he smiled, "you still look tired. Understandable enough. The offer still stands."

She hated moving. It seemed like just packing was exhausting enough. The problem with that was that the packing was only half the battle. And with the mess the crash pad was in, she'd be lucky if she managed to get all her things together and get them out in one piece.

So she sat in the middle of the floor in a pair of cut off jeans and a bikini top -- the tee shirt long since gone by the way side because of the stifling afternoon heat in the apartment. Even with the front and back doors open and a box fan running, it was almost unbearable. She was pretty sure she could smell herself, and that didn't sit well with her at all.

There was a tentative knock on her bedroom door. She turned, expecting one of her room mates, and instead saw Greg. He looked her up and down and let out a low whistle, "how come you never wore _that_ to the office?" he asked.

"Is there another problem with the contract? Because if there is, I can go down there and set that rat-bastard sheriff and his cohorts straight," heat wasn't any better for her temper than lack of sleep.

"No, actually, Gris asked me to check up on you. Said you might need help moving? Didn't know you two were a thing, not that a person couldn't have seen it coming and all, what with --"

"We're not." She told him firmly. "I'm just using his guest room since my lease is up and I haven't had time to find another place."

"Oh. Sure. Of course," Greg conceded, while he didn't look entirely convinced. He looked over the room, which was littered with flattened boxes, ready to be loaded with her few belongings that weren't in storage. The rest of the apartment was standard bachelor/student caliber; clothes everywhere, the odd pizza box, dishes piled in the sink. "I had a dorm that looked like this," he said, echoing her thoughts.

"Hell, I don't even know where to start," she said, pushing a strand of sweat soaked hair that had escaped her long braid out of her face.

"Clothes?" Greg suggested.

"You just wanna paw through my panty drawer," she said with something resembling a smile. She never would have dreamed of asking, but having help did make the task a little less daunting. She caught him trying his best to look innocent. "Don't even deny it," she warned. "Fine. Clothes first. I just don't want to catch you with my underwear on your head." She reached over and set up a box while Greg pulled drawers out of the dresser.

"I always thought it went easier this way," he commented, "is the dresser going with you?"

"God no. That thing is absolutely heinous." She glared at the piece of furniture, with its almost baroque over done carved scroll work. Half the drawers stuck, and someone had decided to paint it avocado green at one point. Most of the paint was still there. In the places where the green paint had flaked off, robins-egg blue showed through. No telling what the original wood might have been. "The place came furnished, so its just a question of getting everything else squared away." That included binders and files and books that she had strategically made room in the closet for -- all the necessities of research. Computer paper, printer, ink cartridges, pens, pencils, paper clips...and pray to God that none of it got dropped or dumped or otherwise mangled on the rickety stairs to the ground floor.

"Well, that makes our job much easier," he said as he began laying folded tee shirts and pants neatly into the box. _Where does he get his energy from?_ she wondered. It would be obnoxious if it weren't...Greg.

She crossed the room to the closet and began laying out her more formal work clothes out on the bed, organizing them to be zipped into a garment back rather than folded and creased into the box. After all, it wasn't like she had an iron to fix any small imperfections should they come up, and she didn't fancy taking her clothes to the dry cleaner to be steamed. At least this way, any small wrinkles could probably hang out of the clothing, and if need be, she could hang them in the bathroom next time she took a shower and steam them that way.

She was so wrapped up in the logistics of her packing she hadn't even noticed Greg talking to her. "Huh?" she looked up, startled.

"I was just saying I didn't mean to step out of line, earlier, with the you and Grissom thing. I mean, if you two are trying to keep things low-key, that's cool," he obviously wasn't convinced.

"What makes you think there is something going on there?" she asked, slightly flabbergasted.

"Everyone has been wondering...I mean, Nick and Warrick have even placed bets on you two. Cath said she caught you staring at his ass one night," he laughed a little and went on, "and God knows I've caught him watching you a couple times. I don't know...you two just seem to have a...way with each other..." the sentence meandered into silence.

"I wasn't staring at his ass," she grumbled indignantly, remembering the night in question. The more she said it, the more she almost believed it. _Yup. Not staring at his ass. Never happened. Not me. Nope, _she thought to herself, finally shaking her head to clear her thoughts. "What on earth are you talking about, he was watching me?" Her tone was still grumpy, but she couldn't help the curiosity that forced the question out of her.

"The day you wore that charcoal pinstripe skirt. Actually, I think all the guys liked that. But he was _definitely_ into it. How does a woman your age manage to have legs like you do?" he blurted.

"My age?" her eyebrows shot up. "I oughtta beat you with this coat hanger," she waved the article in her hand around. "I'll show you age, you whippersnapper!"

He threw his hands up in mock surrender, "please, no! I'll behave, I promise, mommie dearest!"

She had to laugh in spite of herself. "Its called lots and lots of dance classes, Greg. Of every type, shape and size. Ballet to ballroom. Weight bearing exercise is good for your bones, you know. Say, don't you feel a little weird talking about your boss that way?" She tried her best to look stern.

"I think it would be good for him to hook up with someone," Greg started as he closed one box and set another up, this time by the closet for books and papers and such. "Don't worry -- I'll be careful. I know what its like to have to put files back in order after a clumsy move," he reassured her before continuing. "He just seems...a little tired lately, I guess. Being a workaholic will only get you so far in life, you know." He raised an eyebrow in her direction.

"Are you trying to say something about me?"

"Just that I've seen you run yourself into the ground the last few weeks, same as I've watched him do the same thing for the last few years, now." She thought it was the first time she'd ever seen him totally serious.

"Well, you should let the big kids worry for themselves," she scolded softly.

That earned her a snort of sarcastic laughter. "And while you guys worry about everyone and everything else, who keeps an eye on you?"

She was darned if she could find a way around that question. Instead of answering, she pulled a drawer from the night stand and began loading its contents into a fresh box.

"Anyhow, like I said, I totally understand if you guys are trying to keep things under wraps. Grissom has always been kind of funny about his space like that. I wouldn't tell anyone."

"There's nothing going on, Greg. I don't know why you aren't convinced, but its the truth. Nothing is going on, and nothing will _be_ going on." She sounded pushy even to herself.

"Whatever," was the only reply she got.

Luckily, Greg had not only come to help her pack, but had managed to get use of one of the work SUVs to haul her stuff in. _Thank God for small miracles_, she thought as she threw her key on the counter and walked out the door for the last time -- it would only take one trip to get her things squared away.

**Chapter Ten: Exposure**

As a 'thank you' she'd set about preparing dinner. Something that could be left on the stove indefinitely, in case it was a late night, but could be heated up quick if it was short. Pasta fit the bill nicely. She stopped at the grocery store, scraping her nearly tapped funds to pick up some French bread, tomatoes, red and green peppers, fresh herbs, garlic, shallots, and as a final splurge, shrimp and a bottle of sangiovese. She hoped he had the makings for something chocolate in the cupboards, because she was officially tapped out. She hadn't made mousse in quite some time, but assured herself it was like falling off a bike. Once you had the knack, you never entirely forgot.

As it turned out, the night was an early one. She was sitting on the couch reading when she heard the garage door open and he stepped inside. It was barely five in the morning. She peered over the tops of her glasses at him, "hope you didn't grab dinner."

"Not yet," he looked perplexed, "why?"

"Think of it as my way of saying thank you," she said, uncurling herself from her book and walking toward the kitchen. The sauce was simmering nicely, the wine was open and breathing, all she had to do was start the linguini and get the shrimp going in some butter. "Go get cleaned up, or whatever it is you do when you get home. This will only take about ten minutes, maybe fifteen. You don't have any objection to shell fish, do you?"

"Not if you don't..." he still looked confused, but wandered back to the master bedroom anyhow. There she was, bossing him around again. And for some reason, he didn't mind, which was even more confusing. In his space, curled up on his couch, reading one of his anatomy texts, using his kitchen, his pots and pans, and to all appearances, whipping up a gourmet dinner to thank him. He was damned if he could figure it out, so instead, he just yanked off his tie, kicked off his shoes, and headed back to the front room.

She was the picture of frenetic activity. She put Greg to shame. She bounced from pan to pan, opening the oven to check on something, stirring pasta in a large pot. The table had been cleared of papers (stacked neatly on the coffee table, he noticed), and where once there was a chaos of case reviews, now there were dishes, silverware, glasses and an open bottle of wine. He just stood at the end of the hallway, watching her work. The way she would pick up the frying pan with the shrimp and give them an almost negligent back handed toss while she set the colander in the sink to her right, then return to stirring the medium pot -- it smelled like some sort of tomato sauce.

Finally he stepped softly into the kitchen, "do you need any help out here?" he asked.

"No, doing just fine," she answered breathlessly, hefting the pot with the pasta in it and heading to the sink after removing the frying pan from the burner. "I love a gas stove," she commented, dumping the contents of the pot into the strainer. "Go," she shooed him from the room, "sit down and help yourself to the wine. Bread will be up in a minute."

True to her word, a moment later she appeared with a platter of perfectly toasted garlic bread. "The shrimp need to rest a minute, but the rest will be up shortly," she set the platter down and started to dash back into the kitchen before his voice caught her.

"What on earth is this about?"

"Me using your guest room. Sending Greg to help. There are generations of Midwestern farm wives running through my veins. We show people our gratitude or our appreciation through food. Sit back and let me do this. I have the dishes, too," she finished, making her escape back to the stove.

"I thought you were taking a break between jobs," he called.

"What? You expect me to sit on my _toches _and grow moss? This is the least I can do. We haven't even discussed how I'm going to compensate you for utilities and rent and such..." her voice faded as she disappeared into the kitchen again, leaving him to shake his head.

Moments later, she appeared, dinner in hand. Shrimp sautéed in butter and garlic, with a touch of olive oil, still sizzling on a bed of linguini, topped with marinara. She stopped and filled both their wine glasses and sat down across the table with her own plate. She saw his hesitation. "What. You think I'm gonna poison you? Dig in!" She scolded.

Dinner was a success, and dessert was nothing short of a miracle, even by her standards. Without the proper ingredients for mousse, she'd opted to try her luck improvising. She came up with mocha cheese cake -- which was as close to tiramisu as she was going to get on her current budget.

She slid her chair back from the table, looking at him expectantly, and allowing herself an internal chuckle at his obvious discomfort. "Well?"

She obviously expected something -- he could tell that much. What that might be, he couldn't tell, and it was leaving him a bit off balance. He was surprised that she could look so composed and cool sitting across the table from him after watching her frantic pace in the kitchen, handling everything at once. He hadn't appreciated a woman like this since...well, best squish that thought. That hadn't gone well. He'd utterly fouled that one up and he knew it.

"You have plenty of flies already. There's no reason to catch any more," she didn't bother hiding her smile this time. He hadn't even realized that his mouth had been hanging open. She stood up and began gathering dishes, taking her glass of wine with her. It was going to her head a little, but in an almost obscenely pleasant way. Her back finally felt relaxed, she was warm, but not unpleasantly so, and her earlier bad temper had long since faded.

She heard him following her, "really, I can help with this," he started.

"Nope. Over my dead body," she tossed over her shoulder, "especially for someone who won't tell me what they thought of my cooking," she looked at him with eyebrows arched high. "I don't ask for compliments where food is concerned, I expect them. Cooking is one of the things I know I do well."

He mentally stumbled a little as he carried his own wine glass into the kitchen, "it was wonderful. I was planning on making tuna salad and working on case reviews. This was definitely a step up from that. How did you afford this?"

"Never you mind," she told him. _At least I'll get it back with my damage deposit, _she thought, laughing a little at herself, at her own impulsiveness -- something she rarely indulged, at least not where money was concerned. "You know, I really appreciate you sending Greg out to help the other day," she said, turning the faucet all the way to hot.

"He's almost used up his overtime this month, so I figured there had to be another way he could spend his energy."

"Well it really helped, seriously. I hate moving," she said, putting the leftovers into a single container and sliding them into the fridge. "I guess we're quite the rumor mill favorite at the lab."

"Really? What started that?" he asked, moving behind her and grabbing a dish towel. He could at least feel somewhat useful. It was his house and he would dry dishes if he damn well pleased.

"I have no idea. We've supposedly been ogling each other from across crowded rooms for the last few weeks," she laughed a little bit. "Apparently that's all it takes to become quite the hot item among your colleagues. Well, that and I'm taking up space in your guest room."

He looked irritated as he waited for her to set the plates in the drainer. "I thought I told you I had the dishes."

Giving voice, albeit tempered, to his earlier thought, he responded, "Its the least I can do. Can't I dry dishes in my own house?"

She stopped with the dishes and looked at him carefully, and finally relented, "I suppose," she replied, in an almost comically exasperated tone of voice. "If you're really going to twist my arm about it."

"I think I am," he said, "and tomorrow it looks like I'm going to have a discussion with my team concerning speculation about my personal life."

"Oh, let 'em go, Gil," she laughed, "keep 'em guessing. I'm pretty sure Greg told me that in confidence, anyhow. By the way, if we're just trying to keep things low-key, he's 'cool with that,'" she quoted the former lab tech.

He grumped and dried another plate, "sometimes I think he has an over active imagination."

"I'm pretty sure he does, along with everything else, but that's part of his charm -- along with making him good at what he does. I think I set him straight, so maybe it will take care of itself; he seems to be at the bottom of the gossip mill, after all." Which had made him an invaluable asset in her union contract research. Every rumor had a shred of truth in it somewhere, it was simply a matter of chasing down the variations of the story and finding the common threads. She had to admit, if only to herself, that she had a soft spot for the exuberant young man, and was inclined to spare him the wrath of his supervisor.

The wine was definitely going to her head. Together they'd put a pretty good dent in the bottle, leaving just enough for a glass each another day, or to start a sauce with. She should have known to stop at least a glass ago, but it hadn't been so apparent when she'd been sitting down. Then she heard herself ask, "so, in all that ogling, see anything you like?"

He almost dropped the pan he was drying. _What the hell is the matter with you?_ she accosted herself. She even felt herself blushing. Even though she was wearing a light cotton sun dress, the room seemed far too hot. _You dumb ass,_ she continued to berate herself.

"I do not 'ogle' women," he replied in an almost lofty tone of voice. "My mother would probably slap me upside the head if I even thought about it. Doesn't matter that I'm 50 years old, and that I'm a good eight inches taller than she is," he was rambling.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone there. I've made you uncomfortable --" she stammered, before he cut her off.

"Don't worry about it," he told her, sensing the depth of her embarrassment. Turning to put the pan in the drawer under the stove, he continued, "you're intelligent, talented, tenacious, a damn good cook, and attractive. Some guy will be lucky to catch you."

"I'm a little old for that speech," she snorted, "at forty, they aren't exactly banging down my door any longer, not that they ever were. My friends always tell me I'm too picky, but I don't see why I should settle...jeez, listen to me. That wasn't too much information again, was it?"

"You should never lower your standards," he replied sagely.

"The lowly weed hopper is grateful for your approval," she teased, bowing slightly.

He looked at her quizzically, "does your sense of humor _ever_ fail you?"

"Not usually," she told him, "it helps when I screw up if I can laugh at myself. Like just now,"

"You're too hard on yourself, in everything." He said simply. On impulse, he put his arm around her shoulder. She tried to conceal her surprise at the gesture, and failed miserably.

"Pot calling kettle," she tossed back, regaining her composure, and continued, "so you _did_ see something you liked."

"What if I did?"

She shrugged and leaned into him, "can't a girl be curious?" She turned to watch him formulate a response and found herself locked in his gaze. Before she knew it, there was a second arm around her, and his lips found hers. For a stunned moment, she found herself wondering when the last time she'd been kissed was -- a question that gave way to wondering what day or month it was as thoughts slipped from her mind even while her fingers were slipping into his hair.

And then, almost too soon, it was over, and he hadn't quite hidden the cornered rabbit expression in his eyes before she caught it. She'd been on the verge of deciding that a little human closeness wasn't such a bad thing. For all that she spent her days pouring blood, sweat and tears in the needs of others and in close contact with humanity, she rarely invited such closeness into her personal space. She had always considered herself a poor candidate for such things, figuring that after work, she would have too little energy to indulge another human being's needs at home. And she'd been on the verge of admitting to herself that perhaps -- just perhaps -- she _might_ have been staring appreciatively (it sounded less crass than 'ogling') at his ass. Or his shoulders. Or the way his eyes lit up when he stumbled across some new bit of trivia or found the final piece of evidence in a case.

And yet, there had been that look on his face. She looked at her bare toes, focusing on the fact that the second one was ever so slightly longer than the first, at the uneven nail beds that came from her clumsy tendency to run her feet into things and split the nails. Trying to figure out if she'd botched something -- even if she didn't know entirely what that was.

Tact was usually the better part of successful communication, but tact was something she used when she was dealing with petty beurocrats. Tact was a way of talking around people to get them to do the right thing when what they wanted to do was pad their pockets or their egos or whatever else they figured needed padding. Tact, more often than not, was for people she didn't really have a lot of respect for. That wasn't the situation here.

"So...what was that look for?" she asked her toes.

He was off balance again -- and she had to admit to herself that that was kind of cute, too. He looked at her with an expression that was sincerely startled.

"You know -- that deer in the headlights look you just gave me," she willed her neck to bend so that she could look at him.

Again, he found himself surprised with her. She never missed a beat. How did she catch people at things like that? It wasn't just relatively unguarded moments like the one that had just passed between them. He'd seen her do it dozens of times around the lab. In many ways, she was a better politician and people-person than Catherine could ever hope to be. It was like she had a homing sense for minute facial ticks that allowed her to figure out what a person was really thinking, rather than focusing on what they were presenting to the world. He almost laughed, thinking about how that exact ability had frustrated Ecklie and Atwater to no end. She could hear their words, but whether it was body language, tone of voice, or something more ethereal that lay between words, she could always decipher which way they were trying to jump and step neatly around them.

"Now something's funny?" she sounded a little impatient this time. And she did it again. He thought he was better than that at schooling his expression not to reflect his thoughts.

"No...and yes, I suppose. I was just thinking about how pissed Ecklie got when you'd catch him out in one of his political maneuvers."

"And that has what to do with anything?" a little more impatient. Not too much left before the impending explosion that his Uncle had warned him about all those years ago.

And yet, his smarmy side won, "everything and nothing," he told her almost flippantly. He just couldn't help himself sometimes, no matter how serious the situation was. Besides, there was something like steel, both in her eyes and her posture, when her temper got short that was...oddly attractive. Not cold, set steel. Rather, steel fresh from heating and molding, at the top of its strength, still steaming from being quenched. Even if it was directed at him this time.

Her arms crossed in front of her chest and she leaned back onto the kitchen counter and regarded him coolly for a moment. Her body language seemed almost relaxed, and if he hadn't spent his childhood and part of his adult life studying body language to glean expression from his mothers words, he probably would never have noticed the way her lips were faintly pursed, or that the corners of her eyes were slightly pinched.

"I suggest you make your explanation amazingly good," she said in a quiet tone that rolled through the kitchen like distant thunder. She was angry with herself, mostly. She'd let down her guard, and look what it had gotten her. That cornered rabbit look. And she was frustrated with him for not answering her initial question, and for stifling that grin. Combined, she found that her temper in general was exquisitely short at the moment -- she simply wasn't sure who to lash out at.

"Grab some coffee, and let's sit down and talk about this," he suggested, his tone taking some of the acid from her demeanor.

She sat down next to him on the couch with the suggested cup of coffee. "So. Talk." she started, impatiently. If it had been a cartoon moment, she would have been tapping her foot.

"I'm just not much good at this," he admitted. And that was it.

"I thought you were doing just fine," she commented dryly, "unless, of course, you mean to say that you aren't good at answering a direct question."

"I'm not much good with...relationships," he told her hesitantly. "I usually wind up doing all the wrong things. I don't normally act on impulse...like that," it was obvious what he was referring to.

"Why? Why do you think you aren't good with people? Why don't you ever act on impulse? What are you afraid of?" she neatly turned his statement into a question that went right to the heart of the matter.

He winced visibly at her directness, and for once, she didn't give a running damn. Not even if it was in his own space. She felt like he owed her an explanation. And she waited.

"I..." he seemed lost, eyes gone dark and almost murky. "Shit." He ran a hand through his hair self consciously and wouldn't look her in the eye.

Her mood gentled a little and she sat back with her coffee. "Okay. Why don't you just tell me what you're thinking, and we'll go from there," she encouraged.

"Where do you want me to start?" he replied almost sarcastically. "There was a forensic anthropologist who walked out on dinner a few years ago because my cell went off. There was that mess with Lady Heather. I'd had no idea she was diabetic, and when that made her a suspect, neither of us handled it well."

"I think there's something before all that," Vanessa said softly, mentally reviewing her own success rate in the department of relationships. Not encouraging stuff, she had to admit. "I think you've always been a workaholic, but I also get the feeling that there is something more personal making you reluctant to let people close to you. Normally, I wouldn't push. I've got enough skeletons in my closet, God knows," she took a deep breath, "but I also think that _we_ need to figure out what's going on. In light of that -- usual deal. You talk, and I'll talk. And vice versa."

The offer of a level playing field seemed to help, once again. It was something they'd started in personal conversations since she'd had that panic attack, and had continued to use as they'd grown to know each other and understand each other's space.

He nodded almost imperceptibly, "It was when I was still working in LA county, at the coroner's office. You're right, I was always a workaholic. I met Helen when I was releasing a body one night, and we just kept running into each other after that. She seemed smart, and she was attractive. At any rate, we started going out, and then we were living together. Mom tried to tell me that there was something about her that wasn't right, but I wouldn't hear it. We were actually going to get married, when I found out through a colleague that she'd been..." hesitation, again, "cheating. I was always pulling long shifts or long weeks. I figured it was my fault. I let it go, tried to be home more. Then she was pregnant. She was on the pill -- at least I thought she was on the pill -- we'd discussed things and I thought neither of us wanted kids. Not yet, anyway. I adjusted to the idea. I was actually all right with it. Then, one day I came home early and found her 'in flagrante' on the couch with someone, and I lost my temper. Threw the guy and his clothes out on the porch. Went to discuss things with her -- I just didn't understand what was wrong. What I must have done wrong, when I thought I'd done everything I could for her. When I confronted her about it she told me that she'd gotten rid of the baby. She didn't even discuss it with me, just gone off and done it. And there must have been some shred of my Mom's Catholic upbringing clinging to me, because that was all I could handle. It turned out I wasn't as scientific and objective as I thought I was. She went to stay with friends, and I started looking for a new job. That's how I wound up in Minneapolis, actually, working with Gerard..." he got the last part of the story out in, what seemed like a rush to her, and then just stopped.

Vanessa sat in stunned silence for a moment, "you do understand that it wasn't anything you did, don't you?" the question sounded almost stupid in her ears. It had been a long time ago, and surely between then and now someone as intelligent as he was would have sorted that out. But there was a piece of her that wanted to be sure.

"Most of the time," she was surprised to see one corner of his mouth quirk in a self deprecating half smile. "Most of the time, I've avoided thinking about it too much."

She nodded, bracing herself to spill her own pathetic guts. "My turn, I guess. I had, what one might call a series of misadventures, while I was in college," she started. "I'd never really actively pursued anything in the way of a relationship. I figured that I had too many other things eating up my time and energy, and that it wouldn't be fair to whoever got stuck with me. I was an academic, but never cut out for the ivory tower environment, which made me fairly unpopular with a few of the professors in the social science department," she grimaced, thinking about one in particular. "I wanted to get out 'into the field' so to speak and try out all those lofty theories that they spend endless hours in their offices concocting and seeing if they could stand up to the test of reality. Again, not a popular game plan." She stopped herself. "I'm procrastinating. I got burned by this guy who played guitar in one of the local bands. We had a great deal of mutual chemistry, and if we had wound up together, it would have amounted to mutual assured destruction. He was very intense and very private and yet very extroverted. And he never showed the slightest interest until many years later when he came back for a visit after he'd moved overseas. By then I was involved with someone else; he told me I could do better before he left, and that was the last I ever saw or heard from him again," her voice almost stopped in her throat before she went on, "the one I was with when he came back? Ugh. That one was a doozy," she almost laughed at herself. "Mentally and emotionally manipulative, always trying to push my boundaries and invade my space, then claiming his own insecurities were my own until I believed it. Really, thoroughly believed him. It wasn't until he'd sapped almost all my strength and energy defending him from this or that, dropping what I was doing to be by his side no matter how small the complaint was when he called...well, he tried to put a ring on my finger. And I tried to go along with it. I mean, most women are happy when they get something shiny, right? I should have been happy. But I was miserable -- it was one of the worst depressions I've ever dealt with."

"Are you really sure you wanna hear the rest of this?" she asked, breaking her narrative.

"Keep going," he said quietly, drawing her further out of her shell, reasonably sure that, like him, she'd never told a single other person what she was telling him, and not being able to account for that level of comfort and trust no matter how he twisted the thought in his mind and tried to make sense of it.

"He really had me believing that I was...frigid, untrusting, and a psychological burden for anyone to deal with. I kept coming to the same conclusion -- that if I was such a thorough pain in the ass that he would be better off without me, and I tried to leave. Quite a few times. During one of those attempts, I got wound up with this other guy who, for all we could tell, was slipping me roofies when I'd go to his apartment to catch up on philosophy homework. I don't remember a damn thing about that three months, except that I made Dean's list for the first time. Still don't know how I did that. Best grades I ever got," she laughed a little at that. "It caught up with me though. I tried to throw off both of them at the same time, hold down the home front while my Mom was out of the state helping her brother through chemo. Well, I ditched philosophy guy, but not the other one. He latched on tighter than ever, and used everything that happened, that I didn't remember, to put more doubts in my head about myself. About my character. About what I'd done or hadn't done. And I was trapped again. We were fighting all the time, though. There seemed to be a piece of me that woke up when I came out of whatever philosophy guy had been slipping me that knew I had to leave. I couldn't do it for another year, though. Not until I got involved with the local Jewish community, started going to temple on Friday nights, started the conversion process. It was a place were I sought my center. Figured out what it was that I genuinely wanted, as opposed to assuming that what I wanted was what made everyone else happy."

"He tried everything under the sun to intimidate me into going back to him after I finally told him it was done. I avoided him. I had him thrown off campus. I made it clear in writing and verbally that I wasn't having another thing to do with him, and I got on with my life," she finished. "I guess its a 'woman thing' that my explanation was a bit more elaborate than yours."

"Let me guess. You threw yourself into your work to deal with everything and you haven't ever really come up for air since." He was looking at her intently. All of a sudden she had a disconcerting empathy for the insects he studied. They probably got the same look.

"I suppose that's true. I am nothing if not a quick learner, and I learned in a relatively short period of time that me and romance do not mix. Sorta like 'beer before liquor, never sicker.' I get enough social interaction at work, that area of my life is rarely lacking --"

"That's a point worth arguing," he cut in. "In fact, I seem to remember asking you about that once. You work by engaging individuals or communities and working through problems. You stick your neck out, you get your shoulder cried on, and you carry people when they need it. Who's doing any of that for you?"

"I don't need it, they do," she said obstinately.

"And that's a double standard." He finished the debate neatly.

"That's okay. We didn't start this to discuss my double standards. I think now I understand why I got the scared rabbit look. I'm just not sure what happened earlier, and whether it means I should repack my stuff and find somewhere else to stay." There was a stubbornness in her jaw that told him, quite clearly, that she was going to get answers if she had to sit at his bedside and poke him with a stick to get them.

He gave up. They would still be tending to work the same hours, because she was pushing to get the community center open twenty four hours, for a variety of good reasons. Unfortunately, to do that, she had to put her 'money where her mouth was' so to speak, and work the night shift that no one else wanted until she had enough volunteers that she could trust to run things without her.

"I don't know why I did that," he started, but one look at her face made him back pedal. "Well, I know why," he gave a nervous swallow, "you're intelligent, you have a wonderful sense of humor, you challenge me, and you look very appealing, particularly in that dress. And you made an excellent dinner tonight. I'm just not sure why I acted on it the way I did." His expression returned to one of confusion again.

She was silent while she took in the information. "I guess that isn't the question, here. I thank you for the compliment. I'll even accept four out of five." She screwed up her courage, because she knew how he answered the next question would dictate whether or not she was apartment hunting again. And whether or not she'd let her guard down a little, only to get burned again. But it had to be asked. "The question is, are you interested enough to engage this as something more than a single impulsive act? Or do we quickly bury what happened and go back to being acquaintances?" It came out a great deal harder than she'd intended, but it was the only way she was going to get it out there.

He was silent for a long time. Too long. She finally accepted his silence as an answer, slugged back the remains of her coffee, squared her shoulders and stood up to take the cup to the sink. There was a clipped coolness in each of her moves that spoke more than any number of words could. She was working to ball up the side of herself that had wanted to -- been willing to -- share herself with someone else and hide it again. With any luck, it would be buried deeper than before, and she'd never have to take it out again. It wasn't worth it.

He listened to water running in the kitchen, the soft pad of bare soled feet on concrete flooring as she stepped back into the living room, her voice was as clipped as her posture, "I guess I'll be going then," she said, moving toward the door, small purse and keys in hand. She sounded cold and far away, even to herself. She didn't like it, it made her cringe to hear herself sound that way. Almost cruel.

She was just past the couch when she felt a hand on her wrist. She felt her temper weakening again. Blowing up at him was at least, in her estimation, better than crying and showing more weakness than she already had. She turned on him, "excuse me? Just what the hell do you think you're doing? I'm doing you a favor, here. An out. You don't have to tell me a damn thing. I'll just leave and stop cluttering up your life," she spat.

"Wait," he said, so softly she could have missed it. It could have been a figment of her imagination. She continued to glare at him. "I warned you I'm no good at this."

"No shit," she replied. If she weren't sure she could get charged with some variation of assaulting a cop, she might have given in to temptation and slapped him. Instead she watched as he slowly stood up and faced her, lightly holding her wrist the entire time.

"There are no loose ends on your job at the lab to clean up, are there?" he asked carefully.

She shook her head in frustration, "no. what's your point, now?"

"I didn't want to see all your hard work get tossed out if there were implications of favoritism or conflict of interest," he explained.

"To what end. Get on with it. What do you want so I can get out of your hair?" her eyebrows knit low and her mouth was pulled into a tight frown. He couldn't be sure if the color in her cheeks was from embarrassment or anger. Probably both.

"I don't want you to get out of my hair," his voice was held that introspective quality that made her wonder if he was really talking to her or reasoning out loud. "That is, you aren't in my hair. I wish you'd stay." As simple as that, his arms were around her waist and this time there was no trapped rabbit look.

She still stopped him. "I don't expect a commitment, or for you to run outside and declare undying love, or anything. But I do need to know that I won't be some sort of fling or a fix for a case of loneliness." Her voice was, if anything, harder than before, strong, clear and deep, almost tenor. The anger was dissolving from her eyes, however, which he thought had to be a good sign.

"No flings." He told her. "Nothing frivolous. I haven't felt like inviting anyone to get this close in a long time. I don't have time to play games or pretend, and I've never been able to risk myself for momentary gratification. Is that good enough?"

Her shoulders relaxed a little. "I think I can work with that for the time being." This time, the kiss wasn't the tentative demonstration it had been earlier. It was solid, like the feel of his body close to hers. She dropped her purse and her hands stole up to his shoulders, so she could be sure of him. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she was aware that her purse hadn't been closed and its contents were now rolling around on the floor at her feet.

The moment broke, and she was relieve to see that, indeed, the scared rabbit look was gone from his eyes. She hadn't gone out on a limb for nothing. He laughed softly, "if they're going to talk about us, we might as well have the fun that goes with the gossip."

She pondered that briefly. "I can go along with that. I didn't figure you for the type to make a general announcement, though."

"Not really. I think it would be best to keep things 'low key,' to quote Greg, until they are positive they aren't going to call you in anymore on that contract, since, if I understood correctly, they can under one of the clauses in your employment agreement."

They settled back on the couch, one of his arms still around her waist, holding her close, settling into how she fit into the space there. "Probably wise. I suppose that could be bad for both of us," she let her head rest in the crook of his shoulder, almost drowning in the amount of contact that had taken place between them.

"Hey," he brightened, "maybe now I'll get you on that roller coaster."

She hoped he was teasing.

**Chapter Ten: **

She managed to stay away from the community center for two whole weeks -- of course, she had help. In one terrible day, Nick had been set up, kidnapped, and buried alive, every miserable minute of it caught on a remote feed to the lab's computers. She'd been stuck at the town house the entire time; a situation that ran counter to her instinct to jump into the middle of the situation and at least support the people she'd grown so close to. She also knew that her instinct was wrong. They were running against the clock and she would only be under foot. The time for support would come, though. At least when Nick's parents arrive she'd gotten to feel a little more useful.

When they had finally found him, he'd been covered with painful welts; evidence of the fire ant invasion he'd been victim to. He was half out of his mind, understandably. They'd gotten to him in the proverbial final hour.

Then there was administrative leave to take into consideration. After Nick was release from the hospital, he'd gone to stay with family for a little while to recuperate. Gil had gotten admin leave, as well -- close proximity to two explosions had to earn a guy something.

Vanessa wasn't satisfied with the outcome. Not entirely. The trouble young woman behind bars had just one more reason to be bitter now. The father who had counted on the departmental restrictions regarding ransom would never be brought to justice for his part. However, she couldn't deny that some good had come from what had probably been the most horrific twenty four hours in the team's experience. Conrad Ecklie apparently did harbor some humanity after all -- he'd arranged for Nick and Gil's time off personally, and when they returned, as requested, the group had been reunited.

They weren't through the woods yet -- Gil continued to deal with guilt for what had happened. He was stuck in the idea that if it had been his shift, it wouldn't have happened. He hadn't meant it as an insult to Catherine's leadership on swing; he simply still felt responsible for the safety and welfare of the people who would always be 'his guys' no matter what shift they were on. Nick's words rang in his head, too, even though he never heard them. What ever had given Nick the impression that he had let the supervisor down?

Nick, of course, was coping with an array of psychological after effects, ranging from post-traumatic stress disorder to relatively simple panic attacks. The young man was now in possession of demons that he would probably never be able to entirely exterminate from his mind, and Vanessa found herself aching to help him, and again finding herself limited, at first by geography, and then by his determination to put the experience behind him.

Now, two weeks later, in the early afternoon heat, she stood in front of a building that was covered in graffiti, some of it gang logos and other examples simply wanton ugliness. She looked at the brick wall with a sense of distaste, all the while she felt a familiar determination sinking into her bones. She could turn this around. She could help people. She could give the people in this neighborhood a chance, especially the young ones. What she saw in front of her was infused with a wrongness that she felt in her soul, and she would do everything in her power to clean it and make it right again.

She found the key that had been given to her by the manager of the community association. He'd looked at her with a measure of disbelief when she'd met him in person for the first time; her small stature belied her inner mettle.

"Are you sure about this?" he'd asked, cocking an eyebrow. "I mean, this neighborhood. It's rough. One of the worst, actually. No offense, but looking at you, I'm not sure you're gonna be cut out for this one."

She'd looked him directly in the eyes and held her hand out for the key. "I think I'll surprise you. And I'm nearly positive that this neighborhood doesn't have anything I haven't seen before. Why don't you stand back and let me prove myself before you make your final decision."

He'd reluctantly dropped the key into her open hand and shook his head, "can't say I didn't warn you," he muttered as he went back to sit down behind his desk.

"If you really didn't want me around, that was your first mistake." She'd told him matter-of-factly before walking out into the late afternoon heat.

Now she stood in front of the double metal doors, padlock hung lopsidedly through the two handles, surveying the territory. Dead, dried plants, she hesitated to call anything a weed, had taken over the dirt border along the brick building. An abandoned basketball hoop sat behind a chain link fence. Taking a deep breath, she put the key in the lock and felt the hasp slip as she turned. She pocketed the lock and opened the doors, taking in her domain for the first time.

About fifty feet square, it was dusty and neglected. The floors were polished concrete. A wooden stage sat at the back of the first room. The ceiling soared twenty feet over her head. She was struck by the echo of her own footsteps in the emptiness of the building. She paced around the perimeter of the room, familiarizing herself with its size and the possibilities it held. There was a large kitchen on the left side of the building. The bathrooms were down a small hallway on the right.

She tried the lights and the water with no result, which indicated what her first priority was going to be. A community center wasn't much good to anyone without the basic amenities. She wondered if that was budgeted in, or if she was going to be on her own to hunt down the funding for it. It would also need a thorough cleaning -- she didn't relish the idea of scrubbing the floors or painting the walls, but it would have to be done, along with painting over the graffiti outside.

She was also going to have to research what the graduation requirements for local schools were, and the areas that seemed particularly problematic for students. She began to envision tables with computers along one wall, another wall with bookshelves full of resources for classes, and scholarship and grant information so the kids could have a fighting chance at going to college. She saw the outside walls covered, not with graffiti, but artwork -- get the kids to put their spray paints to good use. She'd seen amazing murals on walls just like this in other cities, and it would give the kids some ownership in the facility. A place to display the talents no one gave them credit for having.

The possibilities overwhelmed her. Having completed her circuit of the building, she stood in the center of the room, gazing around her, mouth shamelessly hanging open, as she began to pull her ideas together, trying to set them down into something concrete. For the moment, though, they were a heady swirl of possibilities, making her heart beat come faster and her eyes widen with wonder. In a sense, this was always her favorite part of taking on a challenge, when everything was new, and the possibilities were endless, not yet hampered with red tape and the limitations of the sensibilities of petty beurocrats. Anything was possible, if she could engage her ideas and her enthusiasm, and pour blood, sweat and tears into the project in front of her. Which she would do happily if she was making a difference for others. She wanted to pass that on to the residents of the community, as well -- that feeling that there were no limits, that the world was a wide place filled with endless opportunities. This was the only feeling that made her love of books and learning take a pale back seat to anything else.

There were windows -- boarded over, some broken, now that she saw them from the inside. Institutional looking things with bars on them. The way they inhibited the view gave her another feeling of distaste. There was a piece of her that didn't care how often she had to replace them, the bars had to go. It made the place look like a prison. The antithesis of what she wanted it to be. It wasn't supposed to keep people in...it was supposed to give them the resources they needed to go _out_, into the world, to be successful and to make a difference in the lives of others.

"Hey," a voice said from behind her.

She was totally stunned to see Warrick Brown, leaning against the open door frame. "Grissom said you might be down here."

"I just couldn't stay away," she laughed. "I should have gotten in here sooner," she said, looking around. "There's a lot of cleaning and set up to be done before it will be functional."

"It'll be worth it. I used to hang out at a place like this," he said, stepping in the door and letting his eyes wander over the room, scrutinizing it as only a trained investigator could.

"The bars on the windows have to go, along with the graffiti outside...the floors will need scrubbing, and I haven't done more than glance at the kitchen. I wonder if I've got any bugs or rodents to deal with," she started to voice her ideas slowly. "I don't care what Grissom says -- I'm not bringing him any 'pets.'"

"Yeah, how's that goin'? Stayin' in the bugman's guest room?" Warrick asked, almost over casually.

"Well enough. Once I get working here, it'll probably be like I'm not there at all! I think I may have my work cut out for me," she replied. "Long as he doesn't move those damn roaches in there, I'm fine." She shuddered involuntarily. "They give me the goddam willies, and I've tried to be open minded about it."

He laughed at her reaction to his supervisor's 'pets,' and stepped further into the room, approaching her slowly. "We all owe you, ya know. I didn't think you'd be able to get around Ecklie and Atwater. Not both of 'em like that. I think you'll be just fine here."

"Good someone has some faith in me. The manager tried to run me off before he gave me the key."

"Yeah, well, he doesn't know you like we do, I guess. You're gonna need help with this," he said, scuffing the toe of his boot into the dust on the floor.

"I'll be fine. I'm sure there's some machine or something I can rent," her brows furrowed in consternation. She looked up at him sharply, "what are you driving at?"

"We've talked about it -- the team has -- and they sent me to scope things out. We want to help."

"So when I headed down here, Grissom called you and snitched on me." Her eyes narrowed as she began putting the pieces together.

His gaze didn't waver for an instant, he couldn't fib to her face, either. "That's pretty much how it went down. I can't remember when he's thought so much of someone outside the lab."

The last comment earned him a 'harumph.' "He's developing a nasty habit of looking after me. I can't get him to take a dime in compensation for rent or bills. I'd say I clean and cook out of sheer boredom, but its the only way I have to repay him. Is he always this much of a pain in the ass?"

Warrick laughed out loud. "When he's not busy being enigmatic...yeah. But if you two are together, why are you worried about rent?"

"What the hell?" she muttered, shaking her head. "You get that from Greg?"

"No, I just followed the evidence," he paraphrased his boss. "Neither one of you has to say a damn thing. It was pretty obvious he was into you when you were working from the break room. And he doesn't invite _anyone_ to his house. That sealed it. Grave shift pretty much has it figured out. Sara's a little put out, but she's adjusting."

"Huh?" she didn't know where to start asking questions first.

"You didn't know Sara had a thing for him? She's been chasing him since she came out here from San Fran. It might have been a mutual thing a long time ago, but I think she finally figured out that it wasn't anything he was willing to pursue. Then you came along and grabbed his interest..."

"What do you mean, you followed the evidence? What evidence?"

"C'mon!" he laughed. He had a smile that lit up a room, even the dingy one they were standing in. "You're as obtuse as he is! Actually, you have a lot of personality traits in common."

"That has nothing to do with evidence, as you called it." Her voice became a little terse, indicating her shortening temper.

He just laughed at her again, although to his credit he tried to stifle it. "We've been comparing notes on the two of you since you first ran into each other in the break room. You just seemed to balance each other out..." he trailed off. "You know, I bet I could get Tina to send some of her friends from work down here to help out, too." It wasn't a conscious effort to change the subject, so much as the vocalization of an idea as it came to him.

She let the topic go, "you think so?"

"It can't hurt to ask. The hospital should be really interested in helping with a community center. They see the results of not enough of them all the time."

"Hey, how are things with you and Tina?" she asked.

He looked at her with narrowed eyes, "why do you ask?"

"I'm perceptive like that," she said with a tone of mock-smugness. "I just got the feeling that things haven't been all sunshine and roses with all the doubles you've been pulling lately."

"Yeah, well. We both put in a lot of hours. Seems like one of us is always on call, and she's getting frustrated."

"What about you?"

"Okay, I'm frustrated, too." He replied.

"Why don't you ever bring her to breakfast with the crew? Or go to breakfast with her crew? That might be one way for you guys to get some time together," she suggested. "I heard that there's some kind of law enforcement ball coming up -- take her out and show her off a little."

His only response was a non-committal shrug.

"Is there some reason you don't want her around your work-family?" Vanessa asked pointedly.

"Our line of work is," he faltered a little, "I guess I want to protect her from that side of things." He finished weakly.

"Warrick, she works in an ER. Do you really think there's much she hasn't seen? I bet she sees more in one night than you would ever believe. And you know, part of sharing yourself with someone like that is _not_ having to protect them from everything you deal with. You spend all day protecting others, let her take some of that off you for a while."

He hated to admit it, but she was making sense. "The folks at the lab are like family -- would you _not_ take her to meet your family? Tell me honestly that there wouldn't be something missing from your relationship if she hadn't met your grandmother."

"All right, you made your point," he relented. He looked at her with an analytical gleam in his eyes, "you gonna practice what you preach?"

"We're back onto that, are we?" she grumbled, exasperated. "Nice to know you all know what's going on better than I do. Or he does, for that matter."

"So you admit there's something," he said, hiding a smile.

"You know, all of a sudden I understand your reluctance to subject your wife to your work-family," she snapped, then tempered her tone, "you just don't let up, do you? Any of you?"

"If one of the members of your family had a chance to be happy, wouldn't you want them to go after it?" he replied. "I'm not just talking about Grissom, either. You've been adopted, for all intents and purposes. We actually miss you hanging around the break room, giving the administration headaches. You're the big sister our group had been lacking."

"I'm always happy to take time out of my day to give administrators headaches," she offered.

They watched afternoon fade into evening from the steps outside the community center, alternately razzing each other about everything from relationships to their mutual status as workaholics, until the CSI had to find his way to the hospital to pick up his wife. Vanessa watched him leave, not moving from her spot. Instead she pondered the graffiti on the building, wondering if it could yield some clues as to what social dynamics were at work in the neighborhood.

Darkness settled over the neighborhood and she finally stood up from her perch in front of the large double doors. Glancing at her watch, she realized that it would be close to starting time for grave yard shift at the lab, and she had some questions. If her theory about the graffiti panned out, and there was some sort of database identifying which marks belonged to which groups, she would be back the next day to take pictures.

She ambled lazily to her car, parked about four blocks away, lost in thought, wondering how much the graffiti might change day to day, indicating the level of delinquent activity in the center's immediate area. She'd noticed a couple needles littering the ground on the back half of the brick structure and reminded herself to get a sharps container to dispose of such litter in, which would require that she talk to hospitals and clinics about what facilities would take biohazard waste like that, and if she could get the services donated. It cost a pretty penny to process trash like that.

It took fifteen minutes at the pace she was going, but she finally arrived at her car and headed toward the lab, first stopping at the reception desk to talk to Judy.

"Hey! How's it going?" she asked the blonde, genuinely excited to see her.

"We miss all the excitement you used to bring in," she said, laughing, as she sorted through phone messages left over from swing shift.

"Yeah, well, I'm not that far away," Vanessa replied, "I can always come through and put a bee in Atwater's bonnet for you if things get boring. Is anyone from grave in yet?"

"Yeah, Grissom just walked in a few minutes ago, and Nick got here about an hour ago. Guess there were some lab results he just couldn't sit still for. Why?"

"Which one of them would have the best working knowledge of what kind of databases are around? I'm hoping to ID some graffiti on the community center."

"Too bad Brass is off tonight -- he'd have your answer in a snap. I'll call Grissom. I think he's buried in paperwork again since he had a day off, so he'll be grouchy, but I bet it won't take much to get him down here either," the receptionist said with a conspiratorial smile.

To further the 'joke,' Judy didn't tell him who wanted to see him, just that he should come down to the front desk. She could barely hide her smile at the look of surprise on his face when he saw his 'room mate' standing there in grubby jeans and a wrinkled tee-shirt. "You've sunburned your face again," he noted.

"And I'm sure I could use a shower," she quipped back. "I actually have two questions. First, is there a database or someone in the lab that can identify graffiti? Second, would it be an abuse of lab resources for me to avail myself to that knowledge?"

"That would be Vega's department. Is there something wrong?"

"No, other than my building is covered in spray paint and I want to know what's a gang marker and what's just misplaced artwork. That way I can get an idea what I'm getting into here," she replied. "I was thinking I'd go out there with my camera tomorrow and bring the pictures back here to compare to something, if that something is available."

"Are you just leaving the center?" he asked, concerned.

"Yeah, there's a lot of work to do. The place is a hell of a mess, inside and out; but there's a lot of potential there, too. The floors need to be scrubbed, the kitchen looks like some of your little six-legged friends have been having a party in there, and I didn't even look at the bathroom. On top of that, there are a couple windows that need to be replaced, it could use some landscaping, I need to figure out how to dispose of medical waste...oh -- and before most of that can happen, I need to get the power and water turned on, which means I need to find out if there are any back balances on utilities for the building. The list goes on..."

She saw his eyes light up at the mention of bugs. "If you want to take any of them home for pets, you'll have to come and get them yourself." She told him firmly, knowing exactly what he was thinking before he even said anything.

Judy could no longer manage to squelch her laughter. Grissom turned to her, "something funny?" he asked, sounding severe.

His tone did nothing to quell her humor. "The joys of living with an entomologist," she said between chuckles.

"He'd try to rescue them all if he could," Vanessa joined in, suddenly caught up in the moment, "most kids bring home puppies and kittens. Can you imagine being his mother? Faced with a kid who wants to keep...a jar full of roaches...promising he'll feed them and...take them on walks..." the ridiculous image of a young Gil Grissom in this situation left her helpless with laughter, breaking the sentence into fragments while she caught her breath. She leaned back against the desk, holding her sides, tears streaming down her face.

Through massive effort, he maintained his diffident exterior. "With insects, there is no yard or litter box to clean up. Actually my mother encouraged it, as long as I kept them contained," he told them, completely deadpan, making the two women laugh all the harder.

After they settled down a little, it was Vanessa that spoke first, not without a trace of humor, "your mother was an eminently practical woman."

He simply reached across the desk to snag a visitor's pass for Vanessa and indicated that she should follow him to his office. "We can try to catch up with Vega in about forty five minutes. I think he's out on a call," he told her as he led the way through the open door and past the shelves of experiments. He turned to her, his expression devoid of humor now. "Do you know how dangerous that neighborhood is? I don't doubt your building is covered with gang symbols. You could get hurt out there."

She just shrugged. "One of the hazards of the job," she said simply.

"I'm serious. What time did you leave?"

"About 9:30, why?" a note of irritation creeping into her voice.

"So you were in community center that whole time?"

"No, I was sitting on the steps, watching the activity in the area. Again, I ask why?"

"You were just sitting there until 9:30."

"No, it took me about fifteen minutes to walk to my car. Where are you going with this? Aren't there rooms designated for interrogations around here?" she planted her hands on her hips and looked up at him defiantly.

He sat down behind his desk and regarded her carefully over the tops of his glasses. Usually she thought he was exceptionally sexy when he looked like that (at least, now that she had admitted it to herself), but at the moment her irritation won over her usual observation. He'd been silent for a couple minutes when she broke in again, "well. Do I get an answer, or is this just about you?"

He signed and leaned back in his chair, while she remained standing. "I asked Vega some questions about the area. He told me that they get a call out there at least three times a week. That's minimum. There's a lot of gang activity out there. I'm just...worried, I guess."

Her words were sharp, in spite of his conciliatory tone, "well, if it was a great neighborhood, there wouldn't be much point in my working out there. My job is, potentially, very dangerous. I've had guns pulled on me for knocking on doors. I've been mugged. I've got arthritis in my left arm from taking a hit with a night stick. But it was all worth it, otherwise I wouldn't have kept doing it."

"A night stick?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yes, a night stick. Its a long story. So you're worried about me, huh?" the idea sank in, and she found that she was a little flattered, even though she was still annoyed.

"Well, yes," he admitted. She thought she saw him blush a little in the low light of the office. "Would you mind discussing this over breakfast?"

"I don't know, I may have convinced Warrick to bring Tina out to meet the group. If he does this morning, we should probably all be there," she said, a little distracted.

"How did you do that?" he looked at her with open surprise.

"I asked him if he would even consider not introducing her to his grandmother, and how it was any different not to introduce her to you guys," she told him.

She tracked the conversation back to its original topic, leaning over his desk to make sure she had his attention. "I looked through all sorts of case files. I know that each member of this team has been attacked in some form or another. Most of them more than once. And I noticed you have a tendency to let your curiosity over ride your sense of self preservation. I worry about you, too. But I wouldn't ever ask you to do anything differently. I assume you aren't asking me to do anything differently?"

"Of course not. I just want you to know," he stopped for a moment, "what you're getting into, and I want you to be careful."

She finally sat down in the chair across from him, smiling, "would I be anything else?"

"You just admitted to getting hit with a night stick. I think that sometimes your instinct to help over rides your sense of self preservation," he tossed her words back at her.

A voice from the door way startled them from their discussion, "oooh...are you two having your first argument? Should I leave so you can get to making up?" It was Catherine. She breezed into the office with a few files in hand. "You know, getting you two together was like pushing a rock uphill. You're both so stubborn. Its ridiculous." She dropped the folders on his desk and flopped down in the chair next to Vanessa's. "Anything I can help with?"

Her efforts to help were greeted with a simultaneous, "no."

Vanessa's eyes lit up after she spoke, though, and she saw Grissom cringe a little. "Actually, maybe you can," a crafty smile played on her lips. "The community center I'm working at is a hell of a mess. I'm going to need volunteers to help me get it back up and running again. Maybe you and Lindsey could come out for an afternoon?"

"I think we could maybe do that," Catherine replied, standing up slowly. "If there's anything else, let me know."

"Do you know if Vega is back from that call yet?" Grissom asked.

"I don't think so. It might be a while," she turned and headed to the break room.

**Chapter Eleven: Unnamed**

Days turned into weeks, and with the help of friends and her surrogate family at the crime lab, the community center was nearly refurbished. They had all pitched in scrubbing floors, repainting walls, pressure washing the exterior walls, and putting plants in outside the front doors. The wood floor of the small stage had been sanded down and refinished. Grissom had worked on the plumbing in the kitchen and the bathroom (although Vanessa suspected that was only because he suspected those rooms were where he would find the most bugs). He'd regretted that for two days afterwards, and Vanessa found herself rubbing liniment into aching knees, scolding him for trying to do it all at once. She found that her own body ached in places she forgot she had after a labor-intensive week of working in the center, badgering city officials and funders to make good on their promises, and getting out to introduce herself to members of the community.

As such, three days before the center was officially scheduled to open, she found herself trying to get the knots and aches in her muscles to relent in a hot bath. She figured if it didn't work, at least by the time she got out she would smell good.

She jumped when she heard the door opening -- she hadn't been expecting Gil to be home for another hour or two, and hadn't bothered to close the bathroom door so she could hear the CD player in the front room churning out Glenn Miller. That, and she'd opted to use the bath tub in the master suite, since it was bigger. Now she'd been caught with her pants down, so to speak. She jumped from the tub, hit the lever to drain the water, wrapped a towel around herself and began a mad dash down and across the hall to the guest room, swearing under her breath the entire way.

She looked furtively over her shoulder only to find him leaning against the wall, watching her with obvious humor on his face. "I brought dinner," he said simply as she clutched at her towel.

"Hell's bells," she sputtered, shaking her head at her own behavior. Acting like a kid who got caught raiding the cookie jar. _I guess some things you never outgrow_, she thought to herself wryly. She pulled herself up, trying to gather some of her dignity back, and told him "I'm sorry. I'll just get dressed and clean up your bathroom. Its like a sauna in there just now..." she noticed he was still trying not to smile at her, so she stammered to a stop.

"Its not often I come home to find a half naked woman running out of my bedroom," he laughed. "I can't say that its entirely unpleasant. Don't worry about the bathroom, just get dressed and come get dinner."

"Are you making a pass at me?" she asked him.

"We can discuss that over enchiladas," he told her with a shoo-ing motion toward the guest room. "Unless you want to wear the towel for dinner, I suggest you go take care of whatever it is you need to take care of."

"You make it sound so complex," she snarked as she let herself into the guest room and found her robe at the end of the bed where she'd thrown it that morning. She made sure to take the towel back to the bathroom and hang it up so that it would dry before she made her way slowly to the kitchen where he was setting out plates and unloading a paper take out bag.

"You're home early," she remarked, feeling the need to initiate conversation.

"Slow night. I guess all the people who would normally keep us busy had other plans. I'm still on call in case something big comes in, but I doubt that will happen," he told her.

"And you're on call tomorrow? What's this? You're gonna get some time off?"

"Its starting to look that way. What would you like to do with all those free hours? Is there anything left at the community center?"

"I just have to sign off that the new windows are put in, but that isn't for another two days. I saved it for the last possible minute, since I want the bars taken off, too. It looks like a damn prison the way its set up," she grumped at the last.

He reached over to put an arm around her, "if anyone can make it work, its you."

She looked up at him, smiling, and said simply, "thanks. That means more than you know."

"You should take the next couple days off," he told her, setting a plate of enchiladas and rice in front of her on the counter, "no beans, extra rice," he quoted her typical order to her.

"You remembered," she teased, batting her eyelashes at him. She made her way to the coffee maker to start a pot to go with dinner, and was surprised to find a pair of arms tentatively slipping around her waist. She found herself leaning into him a little, "what's this for?" she asked idly.

"For running down the hall half naked," he started, laughing again, "for batting your eyelashes at me," he continued, "and you're showing an awful lot of ankle under that robe," he finally teased her. "Its bound to get you some attention."

"So you were making a pass at me." She concluded.

"Can you blame me?" he asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I can," she said, turning to face him, his arms still around her waist. "But we've covered that topic. I don't get what you see in me, and I probably never will, so I'll just have to leave it at that."

"Moonlight Serenade" came over the speakers in the living room and he slowly began to dance her around the kitchen. "I don't know if my old bones are up to this," she warned him.

"If mine are, yours are." He told her flatly, steering them to the living room.

"I suck at slow dancing. Watch your toes," she warned again, more serious this time.

"Just relax," he told her, letting his head rest on hers. "As with most things, the guy gets to do all the work." He couldn't resist teasing her a little.

"Maybe that's why I suck at it. I just can't follow another person, especially on such a shoddy basis as gender," she felt him wince when she accidentally stepped on his toe. "See, I told you."

Luckily for him, the song wound to a close, giving way to a piece that was more up-tempo. He walked her back out to the kitchen, where he grabbed a cup of coffee for both of them, and stood next to her at the counter while they ate. "So, are you going to take the next couple days off before you start spending every waking hour at the center?"

"I suppose, if you're going to twist my arm about it," she relented easily enough. After the last few days of preparations, she honestly wasn't sure if she could afford to push herself much further before the 'grand opening.'

"Good," he told her, an enigmatic look crossing his face.

"Why, do you have something planned?" she looked at him with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes.

"Not really," he continued, with the same expression.

In other words, she _knew_ he was up to something. It was just a matter of figuring out what. She also knew that if she pushed him, it would take her that much longer to figure out, so she settled back to wait patiently.

The dinner dishes were washed and put away, and she ambled back out to the living room with a cup of coffee to sit next to him on the couch. They had become comfortable in each other's space over the last few weeks. In spite of the fact that the entire lab seemed to know what was going on, they hadn't bothered to define their relationship in any concrete terms, rather allowing themselves to settle into one another.

They left the TV off and continued to listen to music, talking about idle things like movies and books they'd read. His arm stole around her shoulders again and she felt his thumb running up and down the side of her neck.

She settled against his shoulder with a contented sigh. "Lady Chatterly was a piece of tripe," she criticized, continuing their discussion of so-called classics that, in their opinion, had no business being considered such. "I barely finished it."

"It was pretty revolutionary for its time, though," he returned. "Not that I'm disagreeing with you."

"I guess I can understand why it got the attention it did, and I would no sooner ban it than any other book, I just don't understand why people waste their time with it. I read it simply because it was banned, and I felt duped after I finished."

"How about War and Peace?" he changed tracks.

"Good one. I got half way through and got distracted, though. Seems like it was finals week or something that demanded I put it down. Its on my list of books to finish. Brothers Karamozov was good, too. It just takes a little bit to get into, and you have to be aware that there are parts you can skim through because the authors got paid by the page back then," she laughed a little bit.

"Its nice to have someone to talk to like this; about books that aren't related to work or anything else really, without delving into the realm of crap," he told her.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, "brain candy has its place," she countered.

"Hmmm," he leaned in and kissed her, effectively ending the debate that was brewing. His thumb had slipped under the collar of her robe and was slowly tracing her collar bone.

The kiss broke momentarily, "not fair," she mumbled.

"Hmmm?" he questioned.

"Wasn't done arguing with you," she finished as his arms tightened around her and drew her in for another kiss, this time with more depth and passion.

**/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\**

Her heart fluttered when she felt his tongue caress her lower lip, seeking permission to roam further. She opened her mouth to him with a soft sigh and lost herself in his taste and the sensuous things he was doing to her. For a moment she wasn't sure if she was leaning backwards into the couch or if the world had tipped on its axis. Whichever the case, she couldn't have cared less. If the earth had shifted, she was going to meet the coming climatic alterations a much happier woman.

Sure enough, his weight was pressing her back into the couch. There would be no ensuing ice age or drought and she could allow herself to enjoy his attentions with a clear conscience.

Her tongue caressed his as her hands ran up his chest to curl around his neck and into his hair. She couldn't hide her disappointment when he broke away from her.

"The couch isn't the place for this," he said softly.

"The place for what?" she asked, a little peeved, and a little out of breath.

"To make love to each other," he blushed a little as he said it.

"Oh." she replied, her eyes going a little wide as she realized he was gingerly picking her up and carrying her to the back of the house, to his bedroom. She leaned up to wrap her arms around his neck and nuzzle his ear. "You think of everything," she whispered, and felt his smile against her neck as he turned the corner through the doorway and set her carefully on the bed.

"I try," he said as he pulled his shirt off over his head and crawled over her on the bed, returning his lips to hers. His hands wandered over her shoulders to the sash of her robe, gently tugging the knot loose, pushing the panels of fabric away from her body. Her own hands were demandingly pulling the button of his pants and drawing down the zipper, pushing them down over his hips. She found her libido surging back to life after many years of dormancy, she couldn't wait to feel the heat of his skin next to hers, to get as close to him as possible. Shivers of desire assailed the small of her back as his lips moved from hers, grazing her jaw, her ear, and down her neck. A gasp escaped her when his tongue slipped out to taste the skin where her neck met her shoulder.

Her hands wandered all over his body, from his sides to his shoulders, his back, over his chest, and finally back to his pants, pushing them further, as far as the length of her arms would allow her. Finally, in frustration, she said "those have _got_ to go."

She felt his lips curve into a smile again as he looked up at her from his position at her shoulder. She was struck by how long his lashes were, how they framed perfect blue eyes, and the glint of humor in those eyes. "Yes ma'am," he muttered against her skin, his breath making her shiver. He stood up, and as quickly as he moved, she sat up and yanked the pants and the boxers beneath them down, dropping them in an unceremonious heap around his ankles.

He looked at her with one eyebrow arched. "I'm not going to give your inner smart ass any chances," she explained. "Now, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to finish what you started?"

He looked down at her, smirking, arms crossed over his chest. "What if I don't? Maybe I'll just go to the kitchen, grab some popcorn, and settle in for a movie."

She took his humor in stride, standing up, shedding her robe the rest of the way, letting it fall into the same pile as his clothing. A half step forward, and her body was pressed up against his, her arms snaking around his neck, fingers winding into his hair. "I dare you," her voice had reached a sultry pitch. Her head bent forward, and she kissed his chest, softly, lips barely grazing the soft warm skin she found there, working a trail that followed his sternum up to his neck. She inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of him, even as she stood on her tiptoes to nuzzle his ear. She smiled slowly when she felt him react as she tentatively tasted the edge of the lobe, caressing the shell of his ear with the tip of her tongue. She glanced up and saw that his eyes were closed, his head tipped back slightly, and her smile grew. Her hand moved down the other side of his neck, fingers trailing over his shoulder, committing to memory the line of his bicep, the crook of his elbow, closing loosely over his forearm, falling to his hand. Once there her fingers closed over his and drew his hand up to her lips. Her lips lingered over the back of his hand as she caressed his palm, turning it so that it was open before her. Her eyes regarded him through lowered lashes, savoring the shadow of surprise that lingered on his face, and the deepening blue of his eyes. She pressed kisses into his palm, her tongue peeking out to sneak a flickering taste of warm skin, methodically moving over each finger, starting with his little finger and working inward. Finally, she caught his index finger lightly in her teeth, allowing her tongue to play at the tip, circling it, caressing it, before she closed her mouth around it, slowly and lightly sucking for a moment before allowing it to slip from her lips.

Her efforts did not go without reward. She felt arms closing more tightly around her, hands slipping down toward her waist, holding her close so that she not only felt his body along the entire length of hers, but the intensity of his arousal. A perverse part of her wanted to step back and polish an imaginary ring an imaginary lapel. _Nice to know some things really **are** like falling off a bike,_ she thought, briefly. That was where coherent thought stopped. His hands were exploring her body, one hand at her neck, tipping her head back to receive his kiss, the other roving over waist and hips and butt, down the backs of her thighs, back up the front, finally stopping below her breast, lingering briefly before cupping it lightly, and allowing his thumb to stroke the skin he found there. His tongue had recaptured her mouth, sending her perspective reeling from sensory overload. He seemed to be everywhere at once, and yet she craved more -- more contact, more heat, more touch, more breath, more everything. She wanted to fall off the edge of the world and lose herself in him forever.

She was barely aware of the press of the bed against her back again, hardly as aware as she was of his weight on top of her, a sort of delicious restraint. The hand that had previously tentatively cupped her breast had become more assertive, stroking the nipple until it hardened beneath his fingers. His lips left hers again, wasting no time returning to her neck and shoulder, creeping down toward her other breast. He went to work with his tongue first, running circles over the areola, moving inward toward the nipple, teasing her by moving closer, then backing off. Her breath was coming in sharp gasps, and her own fingers had become more demanding, tangling aggressively into his hair, holding him in one spot, arching her back to press herself closer to his mouth. After what seemed an eternity, he relented, and she felt his tongue circle her nipple, and his lips close over it. Sucking it, stroking it with his tongue, paying close attention to her body -- grasping at every subtle cue she gave him.

Her breath caught in her throat sharply when she felt his kisses start to meander down over her stomach, covering every inch of bare skin, finding small, sensitive spots she'd long since forgotten she had. His hands were working a step ahead of his lips, grazing her thighs, starting outside and working inward. Soft as silk, his finger tips caressed the inside of her leg, dipping to feel the skin behind her knee, then back to her inner thigh. They continued up, stopping just short of her center.

The moan that issued from her throat sounded almost pathetic in her ears. He had stopped -- what the hell was he thinking? Her eyes snapped open and she regarded him carefully. His eyes had an open look of wonder that she associated with star gazing or a new discovery.

"Do I look telepathic?" she growled, sitting up slightly. She rolled on her side, effectively turning him on his back. She resumed kissing his chest where she had left off earlier, this time slowly inching her way down to his waist, her hands playing over strong thighs, raking her short nails along the skin inside his legs. His eyes quickly closed and she felt his back arch when she allowed her hand to glance over his balls and swollen penis. His breath left him in a rush when her fingers returned, lingering a little this time, long enough to feel him quiver at her touch. Continuing to tease him, she let one finger stray up the underside of his shaft, slowly, almost aimlessly. He gasped when her fingers closed over him, softly pulling at him, twisting one way on the way up toward the tip, then twisting the other way back toward the base.

All the while, she was making good use of lips, tongue and teeth over the warm skin of his stomach, tracing a meandering path to where it would eventually accompany the ministrations of her hand. One glance told her that, for the moment, at least, he was helpless to her attentions -- a fact that gave her great satisfaction. She maintained her leisurely pace, her tongue tracing the line where leg joined waist, paying attention to his every breath and twitch, committing to memory those places that elicited the strongest reactions, noting when his responses were more subtle. She could certainly sock both types away into her bag of tricks.

Her teasing seemed to go on endlessly, until finally her tongue flicked lightly along base of his erection, venturing lower, curving around one testicle and then the other, gently pulling them into her mouth one at a time, increasing the pressure of her tongue as she stroked him. A sound escaped his throat that no one who thought they knew him would have believed he could make. His breath was coming in ragged pants, punctuated by low moans. Again, the groan seemed to come from somewhere in the pit of his stomach when she dragged her tongue over the length of him, lingering at the tip, savoring him. She curled her tongue around him, moving up and down, and was rewarded with another groan, almost a shout. Once more she played over the tip, then closed her lips over him, pulling him into her mouth. Even while she sucked him gently, her tongue never stopped moving -- tickling, caressing, holding.

Suddenly, he sat up, propping himself up on his elbows, to look at her, chest heaving, "please..." he started.

Misinterpreting his request, she doubled her efforts, smiling and humming her own satisfaction at pleasing him as she held him in her mouth, savoring the taste of him.

"Please?" he asked again, then let out a soft moan. "Please. stop." His head lolled back between his shoulders.

She stopped, pulling away from him, eyes wide with concern, "did I hurt you? catch you with my teeth or something?" she asked, unfolding herself so that she could put her arms around his shoulders.

His response was stunned silence. In all honesty, she was getting kind of used to that. It no longer made her temper flare quite as quickly as it used to. Concern over rode anything else, though. "Well? Are you okay?"

He took a deep, shuddering breath, studying her furrowed brow and the adoring look of concern in her eyes, loving how they softened to the color of deep, placid water when she let down the barriers she hid behind for the rest of the world.

"I'm fine. Better than fine. You are..." he paused to find the right words, "exquisite. Delicious. And I need to show you the same attention." His voice was soft yet demanding. "I want to know where to touch you to make you tremble, or sigh, or moan." He leaned over her and let his lips brush against her shoulder as he spoke. "I want to taste every inch of you, and I want to feel you wrapped around me."

She found herself melting with every word, conscious thought drifting from her grasp, her body flowing almost bonelessly into his arms. Her last coherent thought was _I'm a goner_, before his lips dipped quickly down her side, leaving a smoldering trail over the dip of her waist and the swell of her hip. This is where he chose to linger, tracing the lines of her muscles with his tongue while his hand slid between her legs, resting between them to feel the heat emanating from her core.

Sighs turned to whimpers turned to throaty moans and one finger traced the outside of her labia, almost reverently delving between the folds of skin, lightly massaging every centimeter of flesh with soft, circular motions. The finger found her clit, and with that touch she felt herself nearly erupt, back arching, hips pushing forward into his hand, seeking more of everything. "Patience, Aphrodite," he whispered as he gently drew his fingers away from her, and turned his breath over her skin to cool her, pulling her back from the edge of her orgasm.

But his tongue continued to draw lazy circles over her inner thighs, and soon his fingers found their way back to where she felt she needed them most. This time she struggled to keep her body pinned to the mattress, and to control her breathing; she was aching for him and the idea of another withdrawal was almost unbearable.

Almost without warning, she felt a finger teasing her just at her opening, circling, the tip just dipping in, lingering, and then pulling away to start the process over. Each time he entered her, the finger went a little further, in tiny increments. Each time she felt gentle pressure as he explored her, finding places that made her gasp. Further and further, agonizingly slow, he reached into her, massaging her from the inside, all the way back until she felt the tip of his finger brush the very end of her depths, making her lose her tenuous control over her hips and back. She found herself writhing and begging for him, only to have him continue his efforts. She became aware of his breath over her, soft kisses on her labia, a tongue caressing the underside of her clit, circling the nub of flesh that already felt like it was on fire, and finally gentle lips closing over her. He added a second finger and crooked them inside her to tease her pressure points even while he began sucking on her. There was no more hoping for control; "Oh God..." she moaned between harsh gasps, "please. please. need...you...ohgod...ohGil." She was babbling incoherently, begging for him, she even felt tears prickling the corners of her eyes. The world was slipping away from her, and it was wonderful, and it was because of him.

To goad him to action, she reached down between them and grasped his erection, surprised to note in an abstract way that it had only become more impressive than she had initially observed. "Now," she pleaded, opening her eyes and looking down slightly so she could meet his gaze. "I'm yours. I need you. Make me yours."

She felt him shift so that his hips rested between her legs, a feeling that was perfect, like two puzzle pieces coming together. One strong arm slipped under her hips, tilting them up and towards him, while the other rested along side her head on the pillow, his hand absently stroking her hair. She had maintained her hold on him, and with a final soft squeeze, directed him toward her opening, pushing her hips into him when he seemed almost reluctant to progress.

"Yours," she sighed as she felt the head push into her, her muscles already tightening around him as he savored the feel of her wrapped around him, entering her slowly until he was completely buried inside of her. His head dropped down into the crook of her shoulder while his arm tightened around her hips. His pace was deliberate at first, lingering when he was fully inside her, then almost reluctantly pulling back. Her arms reached around him to clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his muscles. Finally, desperation drove her hands down to his ass, pulling him into her more quickly, more forcefully. "More, Gil. Take me," she whispered in his ear.

His answering moan indicated he was willing to obey her slightest command, and his tempo increased. She wrapped muscular legs around his waist, pulling him into her again. When he thrust into her hard enough to force the breath from her lungs, she almost screamed with delight. Galaxies were exploding behind her closed eyes as he rocked into her, delicious tension coiling in the pit of her stomach, curling around her spine, winding its way to her brain stem, where it would force her body into paroxysms of ecstasy. Each thrust, each moan, every time he whispered her name, the tension worked its way higher, and she knew that she would lose control soon.

Suddenly, she heard a muffled grunt against her neck -- it was the only cue she needed. She bucked her hips, nearly slamming them into is, not once or twice, but a dozen times, each time tightening her pelvic muscles around his throbbing penis. As her back arched pressing as much of her body into his as she could, and she called his name, she felt him deliver a few short, intense thrusts, and the feel of him spilling into her sent her spinning into oblivion. He was in her, and he was heavenly, and if she wrapped her legs and arms around him tightly enough, they could stay this way forever, and that was all that mattered.

**/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\**

**Chapter Twelve: Lost and Found**

The next afternoon came upon them entirely too quickly. She awoke, wondering for a second how she came to be so amazingly relaxed until she noticed a warm body next to her own; her leg was still slung haphazardly over his hips (she typically slept in a sprawl). She could feel the soft rise and fall of his chest under her hand and found herself smiling, crawling further under the covers and snuggling closer to him. The feel of a body next to hers, in bed, was not something she was used to, but in the silence of her own thoughts, she thought she could adjust.

Her head found the crook of his shoulder, and she began to doze again, pushing thoughts of work out of her mind and allowing herself to just be in the moment, and to feel comfort in his presence. She could analyze the whole thing later. She knew she would, and she couldn't help feeling a little vindicated in the fact that she knew he would, too.

Warmth, the smell of him, and the relative darkness of the room conspired against her, tugging her toward sleep, when his cell phone rang, making both of them jump.

"Good Jesus, Gil, what do you have that thing set to? Small aircraft?" she groused, sitting up.

He ignored the comment for the moment, instead fumbling for the phone and swearing. "Grissom," his voice was still gritty with sleep.

Then he was awake all too quickly, his eyes wide open and concerned. "Cath, slow down. Tell me what's going on."

Vanessa's head snapped toward him, and she found herself straining to hear the voice on the other end, even though she knew the effort was futile.

His voice continued, calm and measured. "You dropped her off at school this morning. Did you get any calls from any of her teachers?"

Moments passed, like hours.

"We'll find her. Its going to be okay. Where are you? You shouldn't be driving right now," he started. "Why don't Vanessa and I meet you at the school." It wasn't a question or even a suggestion. He hung up quickly and tossed the covers aside, making a bee-line for the dresser.

"Are you going to fill me in?" Vanessa asked, standing up and stretching.

"Lindsey's missing," the smoothness of his voice belied the tension she saw building in his shoulders. Although he never communicated such things, he regarded the teen as a favorite niece.

"Has she done this before?" Vanessa asked, rallying her training and experience engaging young people in difficult circumstances.

"Once. About a year and a half ago. She got picked up on Freemont, trying to hitch-hike. Cath's a wreck. She thought they'd resolved a lot of that," he was dressed and moving into the bathroom as Vanessa nodded and headed toward the guest bedroom to throw a leotard on with her jeans.

They met up again in the living room and within twenty minutes, they had found where Catherine was parked at the school. Gil had brought Vanessa up to speed on the details surrounding Catherine's marriage, then divorce, then the death of her ex-husband. Vanessa simply listened, nodding now and again, committing key pieces of information to memory.

There was someone who Vanessa assumed was a school administrator standing next to Catherine at her car, trying in a very fumbling way to be comforting, if she was any judge.

It was Gil who caught her in a quick hug, letting her hide her tears in his shoulder. Vanessa approached the administrator, extended her hand, and introduced herself.

"Marcia Barklay," the prim-seeming woman returned, "I'm the assistant secretary. I don't know how this happened. Our teachers take attendance at every class." She seemed indignant, as if they simply hadn't looked hard enough for the girl, as if, surely, she must be under a couch cushion or the corner of a closet or some place they hadn't checked yet. Vanessa was unimpressed but hid it.

"That's a good place to start," she encouraged the administrator. She looked at Gil, "I think that Miss Barklay and I should go into the office and talk. Come and get me if you need it. Between us, we can come up with a strategy." He nodded almost imperceptibly, settling Catherine into the driver's seat of her car and reaching over her for a box of Kleenex.

Not waiting for argument, she firmly but politely took Miss Barklay by her elbow and led her toward the building's entrance. "Is there a place where we can sit down and have a cup of tea or something?" she asked, trying to gauge the other woman's preferences, to put her at ease.

"Of course, follow me," she returned, stepping into the lead. Vanessa let her, diplomatically allowing the other woman to re-establish her comfort zone. All the while, she analyzed her, from the tips of her 'just-so' shoes to the roots of her tightly knotted hair. Fingernails manicured to a tee. Demure, mid-calf length dress, small floral pattern, trimmed in lace. Medium height. Back ram-rod straight. Very flowery cologne -- maybe White Shoulders? Whatever it was, it had lots of gardenia in it. Behind her ears, there was a hint of gray hair -- indicating that she dyed it herself to disguise her age.

Vanessa found herself in a small room with a circular table at the center. "Do you prefer herbal or black tea?" there was an almost clipped quality to her words. Not out of emotion such as frustration or hostility. It had the feel of an accent, but Vanessa couldn't place it.

"Black is fine. I think I'm gonna need the caffeine today," she remarked.

The other woman attempted something that might have been a smile. Her mouth moved, at least. Vanessa was struck by the fact that this woman could be the living embodiment of Eleanor Rigby -- _wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door, _Vanessa mentally finished the lyric.

"Please, sit down. How can I help?" Miss Barklay indicated one of the molded plastic chairs that sat around the table. She was hospitable enough, but she was obviously uncomfortable.

"Well, what are the attendance procedures at this school, for starters?"

"At Lindsey's grade level, they are starting to switch classes. Attendance is taken at the beginning of every class, and turned in to the office, so that we can enter the information into our computers. If there is a discrepancies, that is where it shows up."

Vanessa ventured a smile, sipping at her tea. "And nothing cropped up in the computer?"

"Of course not!" Miss Barklay was shocked at the mere thought.

"Of course not," Vanessa reiterated in agreement, being very careful not to rest her elbows on the table. "How many teachers does someone in Lindsey's grade have?"

"She switches classes three times, starting in homeroom, where they conduct lessons in social studies, math and English. From there, she goes to the art room. Her second switch is to the science building. At the end of the day, she goes to physical education."

"So she has four teachers throughout the course of the day?" Vanessa encouraged.

Barklay looked at her almost sympathetically, as if Vanessa's apparent lack of intelligence was to be pitied. "Yes, she does."

Vanessa bit back the sharp comments that hovered at the edge of her tongue, instead plastering the smile to her face so firmly she thought it would crack. "Would it be possible to speak with them?"

"I can certainly find out," Barklay stood up and headed toward the door, obviously meaning for Vanessa to stay put.

_What the hell, play the air head, _she thought as she got up to follow the woman out. "Isn't this a lovely building?" she babbled, "when was it built?"

"The original structure was built in 1946, but much of the interior has been renovated since. They had to hire someone to restore the original moldings and fixtures in the late 1980s," she replied, annoyance creeping into her voice.

It was a short walk to the office, where the assistant secretary took shelter behind her desk. "I'll just need to get Lindsey's schedule," she told Vanessa as her fingers flew over the keyboard.

Vanessa looked at the...well, primly...organized papers on her desk, and spied a print out of the young lady's schedule. Apparently an avenue they were planning on taking, just not quickly enough. "Isn't this it?" Vanessa asked, her eyes going wide. "Isn't that handy -- now you don't have to go to all the trouble of finding it again. I'll just take this and track them down myself. I'm sure you have more than enough to do..." she let herself babble a little more while she reached into the tray and picked up the paper.

Barklay was so stunned she didn't even move to stop her until it was too late. Vanessa was already out the door, thanking her effusively for the tea, and the conversation, and all the help she'd afforded them in looking for the girl. She couldn't help chuckling to herself the second her back was turned on the secretary.

She walked right into Gil and Catherine as soon as she rounded the corner that took her back to the double doors at the entrance again. Catherine looked a little more composed than she had, for which Vanessa was thankful.

"Something funny?" the redhead asked sharply.

"Only that the secretary thinks I'm some kind of imbecile," she replied, holding the schedule aloft. "I have an idea. I'm gonna take you guys to the break room -- they have tea and coffee -- and how about you double team calling the parents of Lindsey's friends. See if they know anything. I'm going to take this and talk to her teachers. We can meet back up at Catherine's car in 30 minutes. I'll have my cell phone on in case you find anything out." Vanessa was already leading the way to the doorway on the left, stopping in to quickly snag another cup of coffee before she made her appointed rounds.

A half hour later, she found herself in the school's break room again, going over her notes with Gil and Catherine. None of the teachers had noted anything peculiar about Lindsey's behavior that day, other than she had been quieter than usual. She hadn't made any miscellaneous trips to the bathroom or her locker, and she'd been in all her classes. Vanessa felt like she'd flat struck out.

She tossed the schedule on the table with a sigh and an expletive. "Tell me you have something."

Catherine was on the phone, and Gil just shook his head, standing to walk over to Vanessa. She was stunned to silence when he kissed her, softly and quickly. "I forgot to do that earlier," he whispered. Then he stepped back, "well, if she was in all her classes, then she can't have gotten far. Assuming she's on foot."

"She's absolutely not in the building. I talked to the head custodian and he dispatched himself and two others to check every room in the building. They each took a floor. They headed out to check the grounds, and said they'd call me back when they regrouped or if they found anything."

"Thank you," they heard Catherine mumble into her phone before she snapped it closed. Her shoulders slumped and she rubbed her forehead as if to ward off a headache.

This time it was Gil who called the shots. "Let's head back to my place, its closer than yours," he told Catherine. "We'll set out everything we know and figure out where we end up." Catherine nodded in a tired way that told Vanessa she'd have probably wrapped poisonous snakes around her arms, covered herself in honey, and wallowed in an anthill, all before running off the edge of a cliff if he'd told her to. Vanessa tossed the rest of the lukewarm coffee in her cup down her throat, collected the other cups and threw them in the small wastebasket by the door, and followed the other two out the door.

Almost as an after thought, she stopped into the office to leave their respective cell numbers and Gil's home number (already listed as an emergency contact) with the secretary, who glowered at her. Vanessa made a point to thank her again for tea, and promised to stay in touch until they knew something.

The drive back to the town house seemed to take forever. Catherine slumped in the back seat, too worried any more for tears or anger. Gil was focused exclusively on the road ahead of them -- and probably making a point of driving more carefully than he otherwise might -- but Vanessa could sense the thoughts tumbling in his mind. He was probably reciting bug names in Latin in order to refocus himself, she thought with an inward smile.

As they turned on to Gil's street, they saw a small figure sitting on the front steps. Growing closer, they'd found what they were looking for, the prodigal daughter. And to spite Barklay, she certainly wasn't under any couch cushions or stuffed under a desk. Vanessa's jaw just dropped and hung there, where as Gil was spoke first. "What in the name of hell..." his voice was barely a whisper.

Something in his tone made Catherine's head snap up, though. Gil barely had the car stopped in the driveway before she was flying out the door and up the short flight of concrete steps. Gil and Vanessa jumped out after her, hoping to catch her before she reached her daughter.

"How did you get here? What were you _thinking_?" Catherine raged. Gil caught her up and pulled her aside before she could get any further.

Vanessa just barely caught the quiet conversation as she walked slowly to the steps. "How about we find out _why_ she did this before you come down on her with both feet..." Vanessa, standing behind Catherine, gave him a nod of approval as she sat down next to Lindsey.

"Hey," she started out.

"I guess I'm screwed," the girl said, not looking at Vanessa.

Vanessa laughed quietly, "you could be at that. Was it worth it?" She didn't ask in a patronizing or sarcastic tone of voice. Lindsey could tell she really wanted to know.

"I don't know yet."

"What's the answer depend on?"

The girl had a look on her face that was pure Catherine, right to the soles of her feet. Determined eyes, stubborn set to the jaw, shoulders squared. If Vanessa had to pick one word to describe it -- defiant. "I have a question for Grissom; my science teacher was telling us about camel spiders. He had this picture where it took two soldiers to hold one up. I didn't believe it, but he said it was true. A long time ago, Grissom told me that an organism that has an outer skeleton couldn't support that kind of size. I want to prove it to my teacher."

Vanessa couldn't help laughing out loud. Just like her mother. Doing whatever it took to chase down the answers she wanted, and to hell with the consequences.

"Well, kiddo, if I were in your spot, and I got to slam dunk your science teacher, it would definitely be worth it."

"How do you know?"

"I talked to your science teacher today when we were trying to figure out where you got off to. He's pretty full of himself." Lindsey nodded her agreement.

"I know I'm not the expert here, but you're right. They aren't near that big. Technically, they aren't even arachnids, although they are spiders. I don't remember what their specific designation is. I know which picture you're talking about and it was tweaked before it started making its rounds online," Vanessa replied.

"I thought spiders and arachnids were the same thing," Lindsey questioned, the fight in her eyes turning to curiosity.

"Think of it this way. All Dalmatians are dogs, but not all dogs are Dalmatians. All arachnids are spiders, but not all spiders are arachnids. Daddy Long Legs aren't arachnids, either, but they are spiders."

"How do you know?" in that same 'cite your source,' skeptical tone of voice she'd heard from both Gil and Catherine so often.

"An abiding interest in urban legends, and developing organic gardens in communities that need them. Spiders are beneficial because they eat pests that harm plants. All the better if you can develop a plot that is both compatible with what you want to grow, and will attract the invertebrates you want, like bees, spiders, and worms," Vanessa explained.

Lindsey pondered this quietly and soon Catherine and Gil joined them, Gil moving past them to unlock the door and usher the three ladies inside the house. Lindsey turned to Vanessa half way in the door, "why would you go to all the trouble to attract bugs when you can spray?"

"For a few reasons. Chemicals are expensive -- bugs, if you can attract them, are free. Chemicals can be harmful if you don't wash your produce well enough. Another reason; chemicals tire out the soil too quickly. If you let it do its own thing and rotate your plot, you shouldn't need anything more than compost to keep your soil in good condition."

"How did this turn into a discussion about gardening?" Catherine asked sharply, although without her earlier venom.

"She was asking how I knew so much about bugs. Didn't know that was exclusively your domain," she teased, looking at Gil.

Lindsey shuffled into the dining room, following her mother, her posture still a little defiant, and settled into one of the chairs that sat around the table. Catherine heaved a sigh as chose her spot across the table from her daughter. "Now, _how _did you get here so quick if you didn't leave until after school?"

"I rode the bus," she replied, in a tone of voice that held surprise.

"So you rode the public bus," Catherine reiterated with a nod. "Why?"

Vanessa and Gil stood in the kitchen, trying to be unobtrusive. "Because I had a question about spiders for Grissom."

"You know, you could have just come home and called him? When I got scared and called over here, I woke him up." Catherine's tone held a hint of scolding.

"I guess I just couldn't wait." Lindsey answered with a shrug. "You were scared?" her eyes narrowed, watching her mother intently.

"Yes. And so was your Grandmother, and Gil," Catherine cast a sidelong look into the kitchen, "and Vanessa. Even though she's only met you once before today."

The gravity of her words sank into the thirteen year old girl's conscience. When she'd gotten in trouble before, when she'd gone through a particularly rebellious streak, her mother had never bothered to explain why she was so upset. This time was different. Maybe it was something Gil had said to her. In any case, some of the defiant pride seeped out of her posture as she looked at Catherine and apologized.

"I accept, but you owe everyone else here an apology, as well," Catherine told her sternly. "While you're doing that, I'm going to call your Grandmother and tell her we found you." Catherine stood and walked around the table, squeezing her daughter's shoulder affectionately as she passed.

In the mean time, Lindsey looked at Gil and Vanessa as if she were at a loss for words. Gil was the first one to step forward, getting a bottle of water from the refrigerator and setting it down in front of her, then sitting to her right. "Its okay. I know," was all he said, bringing a smile to Lindsey's face as she sipped at her cold drink. "I don't think you're out of the woods, but I pointed out to your mom that you're an awful lot like her, so she should maybe expect these kinds of things once in a while. I don't think she'll ground you till you're thirty." His expression was totally deadpan, but the girl picked up on the humor of his comment anyway. "Now, about that spider..."

Gil fixed dinner for the four of them while Vanessa helped Lindsey study for a US History test.

"Why does this have to be so boring?" the teenager complained.

"It usually is until you get into college. That's when they can tell you all the fun stuff without your parents coming down on them for it," Vanessa assured her. "Our culture has always been very focused on what lies ahead, which makes it hard to communicate how exciting things in the past really were," she explained further.

"It just seems like, really, 1918 _wasn't_ that long ago," the girl replied sagely.

"In a lot of places it isn't. But when all the history you've got stems from a loose collection of colonies starting in the 15th century, it doesn't leave you much to work with. And a lot of teachers really don't know how to discuss the things that were going on during World War One in an interesting way. It really is a fascinating time period, though -- there was all kinds of stuff happening. Immigrants pouring in from all over. The labor movement. Isolationism versus globalization. Government corruption and the people who spent their lives trying to uncover it. Repression of first amendment rights. All that and a major epidemic. Its all in there. It just doesn't get discussed."

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Gil was talking to Catherine, who had her hand firmly wrapped around a screwdriver. She took a sip of the drink and listened patiently to her best friend. "She reminds me a lot of you, Cath. Intelligent, intuitive, and stubborn as hell. I think you'd get a lot further telling her _why_ you're so upset rather than just basing your reaction on rules."

"This from you?" she snorted laughter.

He turned wide, innocent eyes on her, hoping to deflect her with a little bit of humor, "what?"

"You're such an open book," she said sarcastically, "but we'll get back to that. I'm afraid that she's just going to get worse as she gets older." The worried mother shook her head and stared into her drink.

"She probably will if she's anything like you. How old were you when you left home? Why did you leave home? If I remember correctly, it was because every time you tried to assert your independence, someone came along and squashed it."

"I know. I don't want her to make the same mistakes I did. With the knowledge I have now, there were dozens of times I should have been killed. I don't know what I'd do if I lost my daughter -- its been me and her against the world for a long time now." The redhead finished with a sigh.

"Look, you don't have to do this alone. You have everyone at the lab. You've got me. You've got Vanessa..." he trailed off.

"So she's gonna be something of a permanent fixture?"

"I suppose you could say that," Gil replied, refocusing his attention on the sauce that was coming together in the heavy saucepan in front of him.

"Sounds serious," the statement hung enigmatically. "What's the score, anyhow, since you should practice what you preach."

"Yeah, she snitched on every last one of you," his attention never wavered from the pot he was stirring. "What's this about folks in the lab thinking I need a break?"

"You really think you can work around these people for as long as you have and they aren't going to see you as something more than a supervisor? And you have been more than that. You've helped them and tried to understand them when administration wouldn't have taken the time or the effort. You go out of your way to thank people. When they see you looking tired, or withdrawing more than usual, they're going to worry. The most plausible answer to the Gil Grissom they've seen lately is burn out. You need a vacation. Take one with your 'lady friend.' " she suggested.

Gil just shrugged at first, "I'll be damned if this sauce breaks," he muttered, adding just a little more butter to the mixture. "Cath, can you come over here and grind some pepper into this? My hands are kinda full."

She watched intently for his nod of approval as she speckled the sauce with black flecks. Then, instead of moving directly back to her seat at the counter, she put an arm around his shoulder. "Thank you for everything. Really. Both of you. She makes you happy Gil -- don't go getting nervous and making two people miserable. Hang on to this one."

It was hardly the first time in his life, but his smart ass side got the better of him. "Well, as long as we have your blessing, I suppose its okay. Just let me know when curfew is."

She socked him lightly in the arm. "Behave. The alfredo smells delicious, by the way. Furthermore, it isn't just my blessing -- its the whole shift. With the minor exception of Sara, and she's adjusting. She couldn't really _not _adjust, seeing you two together, and all the work Vanessa did for the lab. There's nothing for her to argue with there."

"How did everyone get so interested in my personal life?" he asked, somewhat irascibly.

"You work with people who can't stand not knowing things. You're the ultimate mystery -- how could they stay away?" she laughed at him as she rounded the counter and went back to her drink.

He had to give in to her argument, even if grudgingly. It was the nature of the people he worked with, amplified when a group was as close knit as theirs. They were almost family.

"So..." Catherine was working up to something. Gil cringed. She was his best friend. He wasn't going to lie to her, but he might not like what she wanted to know. "Are **you two going to the law enforcement ball?" She was smiling broadly.**

"I don't know," he hedged. "I don't know if that's her kind of thing. It isn't really mine. Hadn't really thought about it. Isn't that the kind of thing I'd have to get dressed up for?" he asked with an elaborate grimace.

"You look hot in a tux," she laughed at him. "And I bet she cleans up pretty good, too. You might just go to shock the hell out of the rest of the department. Might be fun. Does she know how to dance?"

"Yeah. I think she was trying to teach Greg how to jitterbug one night," he laughed.

"I think Greg jitterbugs all on his own," she replied. Then she looked at him, and all traces of humor were gone. "Don't screw this up, Gil."

"What makes you say that?" he asked, his tone becoming slightly irritated again.

"I'm a little too aware of your track record," she told him bluntly. "If you don't get scared and run off and hide, you wind up putting work ahead of everything else -- at precisely the wrong moment. Which adds up to the same thing, if you ask me. I just don't want you analyzing this to death, Gil. Even Hodges thinks you've been easier to deal with the last few weeks."

"**Hodges?**" he blurted, a little louder than he'd intended to.

"Don't worry -- he's still in the dark. The team knows how to hang on to a secret when they have to. The shortest information route to Ecklie is Hodges, and we've all taken that into consideration."

"Yes, but Hodges?" he repeated, shaking his head, the corners of his mouth pulled into a frown. He sighed, "I wish that I could have a personal life," he began. "You know, one that the entire lab _isn't_ speculating about." The last statement came out laced with sarcasm.

Catherine just laughed at his irritation. "Is it so terrible that the people you work with care about you? Quit pouting."

"I'm not pouting."

"Yes, you are. I don't put up with it out of my daughter, and I think I can expect a fifty year old man to behave better than someone who hasn't reached her full height yet."

Gil just grumped, took the alfredo off the burner, and toted the pot with containing the pasta to the sink to drain it.

"Just think about that, Gil. And think about taking her to that ball. It'd really put a bee in admin's bonnet to see you two there." Catherine told him before wandering out to the dining room, allowing him to stew on what she'd said.

It wasn't a moment later that the ladies heard a yelp from the kitchen. Vanessa was the first one on her feet, running into the room to find Gil holding his left hand in the sink, cold water going full blast. A broiler pan laden with chicken was sitting precariously at the edge of the counter.

Vanessa moved first to the counter, using a hand towel to push the pan back so that it wouldn't fall on the floor, then crossed the room to inspect the damage. Catherine stood in the doorway with her mouth hanging open, her daughter at her side.

"Shit. Goddammit. Sonofabitch," he was muttering clipped obscenities under his breath as he continued to hold his hand under the water.

Vanessa gingerly took his hand in her own, noting the streak of red at the base of his palm, near his thumb, where the pot holder (which _had_ ended up on the floor) had apparently slipped from his grasp. "Have you got any burn cream? Aloe?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he growled, and continued swearing.

"Yeah. Right. And I'm the Empress of Persia. Now, where's the goods?" Vanessa asked.

"I'll get them," Catherine spoke up from behind them, and turned to make her way to the bathroom.

Vanessa held his hand back under the water, while her own hand ran up to his shoulder. He broke off swearing long enough to look down at her, and noticed the well hidden mischief in her eyes. "Would it help if I kissed it better?" she whispered, a smile slowly pulling at the ends of her lips, making her underlying intent clear.

His eyes widened slowly, and before he could formulate a response, she was standing on her toes so she could reach up and kiss him. His right arm curled around her waist, pulling her closer as he sank into her attentions, effectively forgetting his throbbing hand for the moment.

"Okay, kids," a voice from behind them said sharply. They jumped apart, looking almost guilty. "Here's the aloe," Catherine set it down on the counter with a 'thump,' "now, Lindsey and I are going to set the table. If you two aren't out there in ten minutes, we're coming in after you."

It took Vanessa all of two seconds to step into his space again at the sight of Catherine's retreating back. "So...was that working?" she asked, arching one eyebrow at him.

"Admirably," he replied, his voice a little husky, as his right arm found her waist again, this time trapping her between the counter and his body. "However," he continued, "any experiment needs to be tried many times before the results are accepted as truth." This time the press of his lips on hers, more assertive than before, left her feeling boneless as she sagged into him, arms twining around his neck, fingers in his hair.

"I should put that stuff on your hand," she said softly, breathlessly, upon reluctantly breaking the kiss.

"I said I'm fine," he said, giving her quick kisses, "besides, if you put anything on it, it will spoil the experiment," he laughed.

"You're stubborn, you know that?" she asked, parroting his own words back to him from the day he took care of her after her one-woman strike.

"That's my line," he said softly, moving in for another kiss.

Vanessa found, a bit to her chagrin, that she couldn't resist him. She knew that they had guests waiting for dinner, and that their allotted ten minutes was slipping past, and that they were going to be caught in the act again, so to speak.

Then, to her surprise, he stopped, stepped away from her, and turned off the cold water. Her mouth hung open as she followed his movements. "What? You want to get caught again?" he asked, his lips curving into a grin that held a hint of wickedness.

Her mouth closed with a snap as she fixed him with her best glare. "You just watch yourself," she warned. "I might not be gentle when I get ahold of you all by myself."

"That might be fun, too," he said softly as he smeared aloe on his hand.

She ended the conversation walked in by slapping him on the ass, making him jump. She stepped close behind him, this time allowing her hand to linger where it had before moved sharply, "you really think so?" she purred in his ear.

He was about to answer when Catherine walked in. "Can you two give it a rest if I promise to cover your shift, tonight, Gil? No calls -- my solemn promise." She held three fingers in the air, signifying the seriousness of her pledge.

"Its his fault," Vanessa defended herself, trying not to blush.

Catherine moved towards the other woman, slinging an arm around her shoulders, and told her teasingly, "I know, hon. Its been like that for years. Women throw themselves at his feet and he never pays them a second glance. Then you come along and practically ignore him..." conversation drifted away from his ears as his best friend led his lover from the kitchen.

He shook his head, hoping to shake loose thoughts and images that would be inappropriate to harbor in front of a thirteen year old, while he plated up dinner and transported it to the table.

Through out the meal, Lindsey teased them without mercy, and Catherine made no move to stop her. The red head simply sat back and enjoyed the look of discomfort on their faces, knowing that the young woman's teasing was reinforcing thoughts they'd rather not have in a family setting. Eventually they would wind up outing themselves to the rest of the team, and the teasing they were getting from her daughter was negligible to what they would have to deal with at the hands of their colleagues. She couldn't help hoping that Gil would get over himself and take her to the ball. Then she could relish the look on Ecklie's face, along with the other administrators, and anyone else (herself and members of the team included, she admitted to herself) who had consigned her best friend to being incapable of human feeling. She found herself looking at the couple with a certain hint of pride.

Catherine insisted that Lindsey clear the table and rinse the dishes before they left, while the 'grown ups' sipped coffee in the living room and talked idly of anything but work. Eventually, though, mother and daughter departed, leaving the couple to their own devices. It didn't take them long to figure out what to do with themselves.

**/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\**

Standing by the window, watching as Catherine and Lindsey disappeared, his arms were back around her waist, pulling her almost roughly into his chest while his lips met hers. Losing herself in the moment, she relished the closeness of his warmth, the feel of his desire apparent, even through clothes, against her hip. Her hands were already toying with the buttons of his shirt, negligently freeing one at a time while his tongue demanded entrance to her mouth. She met his demands with equal passion, her own tongue fiercely engaging his, caressing, stroking, even sucking.

She was ahead of the game so far, she noticed. She pushed the last button through its hole and yanked his shirt free of his pants, exposing his chest. He broke the kiss and backed her into the door, "oh yeah, foul temptress?" he smiled as his hands went to the top of her jeans, freeing the button and pulling the zipper down in one quick movement.

"Yeah," she challenged back, returning his smile. She leaned into him, her hands grasping his hair and pulling him in for another kiss. Thus distracted, she trailed one foot up the inside of his leg, letting it linger for a moment to rub him through the fabric at the crotch of his pants before it moved over his hips and the small of his back. Much to her satisfaction, he groaned. Upping the ante just a little more, she used the leg that was now wrapped around his waist to pull him forward, pressing him into her body as tightly as she could.

He groaned against her lips, again breaking the kiss. This time, as he looked into her smiling eyes, he was panting. Her smiled widened as she ground her hips into his. Every time he looked like he was about to say something, she twisted against him, stealing the words from his throat. Finally, she let her foot trail down the inside of his leg from behind him, until it rest lightly on the floor. She took his burned hand in hers and gently kissed the area that still radiated pink heat, then traded it for the other hand. Her mouth found his fingers, kissing and sucking at them as she turned him around to lead him to what had quickly become their bedroom. She moved to kiss the inside of his wrist, tongue sneaking out to taste his skin and feel the warmth of his pulse, all the while her hands slipped up his chest to push his shirt from his shoulders, and down his arms, finally dropping it to the floor half way down the hall.

He stopped, almost turning back to pick the garment up, out of habit. She caught his wrists in her hands and continued to pull him down the hall with a smile and a shake of her head. At the entrance to the bedroom, she let go and reached over to her own shoulders, sliding the straps of her hastily donned leotard down her shoulders. There was no delicacy in his movements when he picked her up by the waist and set her on the bed, pushing her back into the mattress as his mouth landed on hers. One second his hands were in her hair, the next they were pushing the straps of her leotard down, pulling the form-fitting garment down to her waist. She hadn't even been aware that she had stopped breathing until his mouth left hers, and she was taking in air in desperate gulps. His lips and tongue were pressing into her bare flesh, sucking at her breasts, teeth playing over her nipples, making her gasp and moan. His attentions moved lower, allowing his arms the freedom to pull her clothing from her body in one easy motion. When he was done, his mouth was hovering over her aching center, hands moving back up her legs to her hips, where his fingers dug into her curves, pulling her toward the warmth of his mouth and the furious attention of his tongue.

When his tongue rubbed over her clit, her back arched and she cried out. He pulled her in and suckled her, sending burning waves of need through her body, making her shiver. Without any warning, two fingers were slipping into her, finding her g spot, driving her closer to orgasm. Her hips spasmed, lifting convulsively from the bed, only to be pushed back down again and held by his arm. His fingers were delving in and out of her, each pass pressing into her g spot, bringing another cry to her lips.

Finally, in desperation, she started to form words, "Gil," she panted, "I need you. Now. Please." He looked up at her from his position between her legs, her clit still in his mouth, tongue massaging it in tight, tiny circles. She could have sworn she saw a grin in his eyes and let her head fall back against the pillows in defeat as she felt a third finger enter her, almost making her scream in frustration. She looked down again, trying to focus on him, her voice a growl this time, punctuated by higher pitched wails of need, "Gil, ohhh...ohh God. Please. I need...Gil!...to feel you in me. Make me...ummmm...cum, Gil. Please. Need. Oh God. Ohgod..." her words faded to breathless pleas as he maintained his ministrations.

"I can't..." she whispered, reaching down, tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling him up as carefully as she could by his damp curls. "Now, Gil?" she was begging. She was granted one last lucid thought as he quickly rid himself of his pants and pulled her hands from his hair, pinning them above her head with one hand. _How does he do this to me? _was her thought, and anything after it was scattered into oblivion as she felt him pushing against her opening, just a light touch before he plunged into her and her legs wrapped themselves around his waist, holding him as tightly as she could against her. He backed out and thrust into her again, hard enough to push her breath from her, with a guttural grunt. His pace was frantic, almost animalistic, increasing in speed and force. The feel of him sliding in and out of her, throbbing, hot, and wet, the way his body felt on top of hers, smooth skin and straining muscles, was the carnal bliss she had been seeking, and the torment of being made to wait for it through the afternoon and dinner after that, added something to the pleasure. The feel of her arms straining against his hand was more erotic than she'd guessed it would be, a delicious feeling of relinquished control, entrusting herself completely to another person, allowing him to ravage her, and knowing that his grip was light enough that if she really tried to, she could certainly break away.

Instead, as she felt her muscles tighten around him, clenching and unclenching as she reached orgasm, she leaned forward and first, kissed his shoulder, then closed her teeth on the flesh she found there. She was rewarded with a full throated cry from him as his thrusts gained an impossible intensity, filling her, making the room, the world, around them, fade from reality. "Oh God. Vanessa. Please cum for me," he whispered into her shoulder. The gritty desperation in his voice and in his body were all it took for her to oblige, and her hips slammed into his uncontrollably. She heard their voices in a disembodied kind of way, her consciousness compromised by the force of the orgasm that was shuddering its way through her body. Finally, she felt him spill into her, and with a broken moan he slowed to a stop, collapsing on top of her in exhaustion. His grip on her wrists slacked and her arms slipped around his shoulders, slowly and lightly stroking his back as they regained their breath.

**/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\**

"I'm squashing you," he mumbled from her shoulder.

"Its fine. I like it," she told him quietly. "Stay."

He sighed and she felt him slip out of her as he softened, leaving a void in her that she couldn't describe.

"That didn't go how I planned for it to," he mumbled again, this time lifting his eyes to meet hers.

"Really? I thought it went rather well," she couldn't help smirking.

"But you can still put two words together, which means it didn't go like I planned it," he replied obstinately.

Her eyebrows arched in unabashed curiosity. "You had plans, huh? What kind of plans?"

"It started with keeping you in my bed all day, naked and beautiful," he started, brow furrowing at her look of skepticism. "What? You don't think I can do it?"

"Oh, I'm absolutely certain you could keep me naked and in bed and lusting after you all day, its the beautiful part that's a little..." she faltered, the first word on her tongue being ridiculous, but knowing that would leave the wrong impression, "it just makes me question the quality of your eyesight."

He moved off her, pulling her with him so that she was laying against his chest. The steady thump of his heartbeat against her ear was comforting, letting her slip further toward utter relaxation.

He continued, "its been a long time since I invited a woman to my bed," he said slowly. "I'd like to do what I can to keep her coming back," he pressed a kiss into the top of her head, tightening his arms around her as she resumed the comfortable sprawl she'd woken up in that morning, with one leg slung around his hips, maintaining as much contact between them as physically possible.

"Again, no problem there. I think you're turning me into an addict," she laughed lightly.

"You're beautiful, you could have had anyone in the lab. Or outside the lab, for that matter. You must be delusional that you picked me," he told her, returning to his earlier train of thought. "No..." he started, stilling the argument that was forming on her lips with one finger, "I won't have you debating me on this. I wanted to spend all day pleasuring you," his eyes were boring into hers as craned her neck to look up at him, "giving you one orgasm after another. First with my hands, then with my mouth, and finally..." he let the sentence trail off.

She was silent for a while, thoughts arrested by the deep blue of his eyes locking her own into place, intense enough to make her heart almost stop. Finally, she took a deep breath and settled back into his shoulder, "I love you, Gil Grissom," she sighed.

She felt him tense instantly at her words, and for a moment, hid her face in his shoulder. Again, she found herself working up her courage to ask him a question to which she was afraid of the answer. Never the less, she sat up on one elbow and looked him square in the eye, "I shouldn't have said that yet, should I?"

"I think you should say whatever is on your mind," he said carefully.

"Yeah, but I think I just pushed you further than you were comfortable with," she replied, shaking her head. "I shouldn't do that. Considering I wouldn't mind returning to your bed as often as you'd like," she finished, trying to smile.

"Why?" he asked.

"What do you mean, why? Because that was completely earth shattering sex. If the female population at large knew what you could do, you'd have to retire to live in the mountains as a hermit to escape them," she said, frustrated that he seemed to have dodged the crux of the conversation again.

"No. Why did you say that..." he faltered, "you love me?"

She was stunned, almost to the point of tears. His expression was openly confused -- he really didn't get it. "Do you think I'd say it if I didn't mean it?"

His eyes grew distant and she knew he was reflecting on times when he'd exposed himself to someone only to end up worse for it. She'd spent a great deal of time reflecting on her own romantic mishaps in recent weeks, telling herself that whatever was progressing between them was a romantic friendship. She'd finally had to call herself on her own nonsense, though, about a week ago, while working late one night painting the inside of the community center.

She'd gone through her problem in a very linear manner, establishing that there was, indeed, a very deep friendship between them. From there, she acknowledged that the friendship, over the last few weeks, had developed some seriously romantic over tones. It simply didn't feel like 'friendship with benefits,' as many called it. Although they hadn't made love until the night before, there was no lack of physical contact between them -- also known as 'making out.' He made her happy in a way no one else in her life had been able to. That was the hardest part to admit. The question that naturally followed: _isn't that something akin to love? And wouldn't you be happier if you just admitted that?_

The answer, at first, obstinately forcing itself to the front of her mind: _So what's holding you up?_

Equally obstinately: _he could do **way** better than you, that's why. There's someone who's just perfect for him waiting around the corner. He deserves her, not a neurotic, workaholic, basket case who really doesn't have time to indulge the wants and needs of another human being._

But that had rang false in her head, and she'd known it, even though it took hours of mental gyrations for her to admit it. And finally she was left with: _why don't **you **deserve to be happy? What's holding you up?_

And she didn't have a good answer to that one. She never accepted 'just because' out of anyone else, so she supposed she shouldn't accept it out of herself. And then, last night...

It occurred to her finally that maybe she needed to ask him the same questions she'd asked herself. She started with: "Why shouldn't I?"

She sat up in the bed to look at him as directly as possible, shivering at the loss of warmth now that his arms weren't around her. He stammered, "I told you already; you could have anyone you want. You pick a guy who keeps experiments in the fridge, races cockroaches, farms maggots, works insane hours, and, among many other things, will likely lose his hearing." He sat up as well, crossing his arms over his bare chest defiantly.

"So I'll have to learn sign language. Big deal," she started casually. "I repeat, why shouldn't I pick you? You challenge me. You make me happy. Most of all, you understand me. I've told you things I've never dared tell anyone else, and you didn't judge me or shy away from it. You've got the intellect, and, pardon the vernacular, you've got the balls, to put up with someone like me. Doesn't hurt that you're the hottest thing on two legs..." she threw the last part out with a smile that she hoped would take some of the challenge out of her statements.

She watched color slowly seep into his cheeks, unable to believe she'd made him blush. Although even that was kinda cute. He turned to her with another argument, "I've got ten years on you --"

She cut him off, "Gil, that's lame and we both know it. Have you got anything more convincing in your arsenal? Or should I go back to the guest room while you think something up?" She waited patiently for his reply.

She was rewarded when his arms stole around her shoulders again, pulling her close to him, "I don't know what's wrong with you -- there's probably a medication out there somewhere for it -- but I'll take what I can get for now," his voice was soft in her ear.

"So I make you happy?"

"Yes."

"Is there some reason you don't think you deserve that?"

"I probably don't," he told her, nuzzling her neck, "but I'll let you figure that out in your own time." His lips were moving over her neck again, more delicately than before.

She leaned back into his attention and closed her eyes. "I love you," she repeated, with a measure of confidence that she hadn't had earlier.

His breath on her shoulder chased shivers up her spine as he spoke, "I love you." And over the course of the evening, he made good on the plans he'd so carefully laid out.


	3. Part 3

**Author's Note: This piece has a tendency to fluff, and its short. Oh, that and some smut. So enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: My cockatiel has a new perch. I still have nothing. Disclaimers also to Anthony Bourdain and Tyler Florence. Please don't sue me.**

**Part Three**

**Chapter Thirteen: Nerves**

She peeked through the kitchen door to the group of people that had gathered in the building, visibly paling at the sight of their growing numbers. Promptly at 7:30 pm, she was to get up and speak to them, and right now, she didn't think she could do it. In fact, she was damn sure she couldn't do it. Her knees were barely holding her up, her hands were shaking uncontrollably, and her thoughts had turned to an incoherent wash of mud. She crossed the room briskly and sat down with a thump in a folding chair, putting her head between her knees and trying to breath deeply.

A hand on her shoulder made her jerk upright in surprise. She looked around with wide, frantic, eyes, afraid she had missed her cue. She'd had ten minutes when she sat down, but she couldn't be sure if she'd been in the chair thirty seconds or thirty minutes.

She was stunned to see not only Gil, but Warrick, Nick, Greg and Catherine behind her. "Shouldn't you guys be getting ready for your shift?" she asked in a shaky voice.

"Shift-schmift," Greg joked, earning a stern look from his boss. "Hey, you don't look so good," he commented.

"Well, at least my outsides match my insides," she tried to laugh. "Must have been something I ate," she lied. "Been feeling kinda queasy since I ate lunch with the councilman." She was referring to an appointment she'd had with one of the members of the county council who was key for future funding in the non-profit sector. Selling her program to him had been tough -- he was much more interested in photo ops than actual work. She grimaced, remembering the conversation, and how she had been utterly distracted by his hair. Every strand perfectly in place. She wondered if they'd have to change the laws of physics to move it. He wore a small brass name tag on the lapel of his suit jacket that made him look like he should be managing a fast food restaurant.

She stood up, forcing the jitters into the pit of her stomach, hoping her knees weren't shaking visibly. Damned if she was going to let anyone see her looking like a bundle of nerves.

"You're almost on," Nick said, grinning. "We should go out and take our places. Wouldn't miss this for the world!" He clapped her on the shoulder as he let himself into the main room, followed by his colleagues.

All of them except for Gil. He stood in front of her, looking at her very intently. The 'bug studying' look, as she had come to call it, if only to herself. "Liar." His voice was soft and his arm went around her waist.

"Seriously. I think that place served a bad salad or something," she continued her facade, although without any conviction now that they were alone.

His other arm went around her shoulders, pulling her close. "You're gonna be fine," he told her. "I didn't know you had trouble with public speaking."

His nearness had a calming effect on her -- when her shoulders dropped it felt like they fell about six inches. "Yeah, well..."

She heard the gabble of conversation dying down in the adjoining room, and the whine of feedback from the microphone. "This thing on?" a baritone voice echoed through the hall. A chuckle from the audience. The opening speaker began his address, introducing the community center and its advocate. Zero hour was quickly approaching. Too quickly.

She backed away from him, her eyes panicked, a hand clapped over her mouth. "Wastebasket..." was all she managed to say as she whirled around and leaned over the nearest trash can and quietly heaved her mediocre lunch. She sat there for a second, bent at the waist trying to catch her breath. His hands were on her shoulders again. "I can't do this!" she said frantically, shaking her head, near tears.

Hands left her shoulders and she heard water running. Then she knew he was standing in front of her because his knees blocked her view of the room. "Here," he said, holding out a paper cup with some water. "Rinse." She did as she was told, feeling utterly ridiculous. She felt a damp rag being pressed into the back of her neck, and her breathing evened out somewhat. She chanced a look up at him, noting that concern was battling humor in his eyes.

"I'd tell you to just imagine them all in their underwear, but that might not work out so well," he told her, scooting the trash can out the back door.

"Never worked for me anyhow," she mumbled. None of the usual tricks did. She could still hear her own voice and that was what truly bothered her about public speaking. She wished she had a voice more like Lauren Bacall or Ingrid Bergman, with, Heaven forbid, a consistent accent instead of her own peculiar mutt that included the northern Midwest and something of a tornado-alley drawl. She didn't like the way she sounded, and therefore saw no reason to inflict her voice on the innocent ears of the masses.

He stepped close to her again. "I'm just worried you might see something you like and run off," he teased. At least, she hoped he was teasing. The discussion that had followed her 'I love you' a couple nights ago had her wondering, however.

She wrapped her arms around him, smiling as she looked up at him, "not on your life," she said. "Besides, I dare you to find me a better looking man, with a great intellect and a sense of humor, who is also a-mazing in bed. It can't be done. You'd get me on one of your blasted roller coasters first." She flinched a little, realizing what she'd opened herself up for. "I'd kiss you, but I'm reasonably sure I need to brush my teeth at this point," she continued, hoping to distract him from that roller coaster bit. Ultimately, she preferred to keep her feet planted on good old fashioned earth.

He leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers anyway, surprising her so that she forgot to be nervous for a second. "Is there a single person out there whose doorstep you haven't been on?" he asked her, his tone uncharacteristically blunt.

She peeked out the swinging door again. The emcee was wrapping up his comments. She turned back around and shook her head. "You know what they need. And if I know you, you'll move mountains to see that they get it. That's all they need to know. To paraphrase Hillel, 'the rest is commentary.'" He reached over and squeezed her shoulder before he slipped out the door to take his place at the back of the hall beside the rest of his team.

She jogged in place and did a few jumping jacks to dispel the excess energy that was threatening to make the jittering start again, then tugged her shirt back into place, took off her glasses and hung them on the collar of her shirt, and pushed through the swinging door.

Taking her place at the microphone, she took a deep breath and said a small prayer, and began her speech.

Following her announcements, primarily thanking the community for showing their support even while she was in the early stages of developing the community center, refreshments were provided. Vanessa made her way through the room with a cup of coffee, shaking hands, trying to get around the tangles of people to get outside and smoke a cigarette. She felt she had truly earned this one. And a drink. Or something. She'd made it through the entire speech without making a total ass of herself. She'd even made the audience laugh a couple times. She was happy that she was getting such a great show of support from a group of people who, for all intents and purposes, had every reason to be completely disillusioned and disenfranchised with efforts such as this. She looked around, recognizing this as her core group -- the people she would be able to count on to help her push the rock uphill. She sighed, pondering the myth of Sisyphus, realizing his chore had only been impossible because he'd been assigned to it by himself, and thinking how lucky she was to have so much help.

This didn't diminish her desperate need to get outside, to feel fresh air on her skin, to get some nicotine into her system, and to re-center herself after the chaos of being surrounded by people. She was riding on adrenaline now, and she'd pay for it later if she didn't take a time out.

She finally found the door and let herself out, quickly walking around to the side of the building, marveling at how taking the bars from the windows and putting in a few drought tolerant plants had improved the entire atmosphere of the building, and how it had changed how people approached it. It was a new entity, now, she thought. It had possibilities again. The people inside were hopeful. She dug her cigarettes out of her jeans pocket and lit up. She slid down the wall until she was sitting with her bent legs pulled almost up to her chest, elbows resting lazily on her knees. The traffic from the main street was an almost constant drone, blotting out the noises from inside the building, filling the air with the throat tingling scent of exhaust.

All in all, she felt that she was satisfied with life, and how many people could say they had ever felt that? She decided to indulge herself in a little self congratulation -- the work wasn't even remotely finished, but at least there was motion. Like an addict having a moment of clarity, she was faced, not for the first time, with the realization that this was why she invested so much of herself in what she did. Unlike the addict, she came to the conclusion that it was worth every ounce of sweat and every dime she'd never make. She could respect herself and her work, and her work was to act on her instinct to reach out to people. Having all that, it didn't matter if she ever got rich.

"There you are." It was Gil again. "It's going on 9:00, and I need to get ready for shift. The guys have been looking for you, they want to give you their congratulations. No one would have ever known you threw up. Unless of course they inspected the trash can out back."

"I'll go in in a second," she said, stumping out her cigarette and tossing it into the coffee can she'd reserved for such purposes during the refurbishing process. Slowly, she stood up, turning to face him. She gave him a lop sided smile as she moved closer, her arms running around his waist and dipping lower to the curve of his (in her humble opinion) perfectly shaped ass, "I'll make that kiss up to you later," she whispered in his ear. "Come home soon," she pressed a kiss into the skin of his neck before letting go so he could turn around and head for his car. She stifled a laugh when she saw him repressing a shiver and shaking his head as he walked away.

The last of the guests had left around ten o'clock, and she'd stayed behind to give the place a quick clean up before she wandered back to her car. As she drove out of town she pondered the hours before he would be home. In a way she was glad that she would have some time to herself to shake off the jitters that always came over her after being in the middle of a crowd of people like that. She could sit out on the patio, look at the stars, and take in some quiet.

And she could use some of the time to set up a surprise for him. She had, after all, given him a not so subtle hint that she was looking forward to spending time with him when he got home from work. Maybe it was time to do something a little more elaborate. She certainly couldn't see most guys putting up with her -- never mind that be there for her after she finished puking in a trash can. She glanced in the rear view mirror and for a second wondered who the woman with the stupid grin on her face was in the left corner of the mirror. Realizing it was her, she shook her head, scolding herself for acting like a love-sick newly wed. _You'll give yourself a cavity!_ she thought.

_Back to serious business,_ she thought, flipping her left turn signal on to take the high way home.

The desert air smelled dusty and sweet as it swept in the open window. It was still a foreign smell to her -- she was accustomed to the smell of grass and trees, and rain. She was beginning to wonder if she'd ever see rain again, but the dull ache in her shoulder told her she wouldn't have to wait long for that. Even the way her shoulder ached in this new place was different. She shook her head, wondering at how she had wound up here and found such good fortune. Spring had been amazing for her -- no aching joints loosening up as warmth leeched the winter's cold damp from them. No sneezing from pollen assailing her sinuses. She had been truly reluctant to leave her home in the northwest, but she also found that while she missed it, she didn't regret it.

She pulled into the driveway; her tiny, older model, well-used car left plenty of room for the SUV. She marched up to the door, fumbled with her key, and eventually gained entrance; her first action was to flop down in a chair with her feet up on the coffee table. She gazed around the house, taking in her options. There were a total of three rooms. Two bathrooms -- one attached to the master bedroom. There was the living room, the kitchen, and the dining-ish area (not an official room -- more of an off shoot of the kitchen). There was the patio. There was the garage.

She cancelled the garage out of hand -- he kept far too many of his pets out there. She was no shrinking violet, but the idea of all those compound eyes watching her at her most vulnerable...well, she just didn't care for it. Forget the garage.

She flipped on the TV, skimming through the channels, hoping something would give her an idea. She landed on the Travel Channel and found herself entertained by Anthony Bourdain getting drunk on Vietnamese homebrew. Then there was a special on hotel bathrooms, so she changed over to Food Network. Tyler Florence was detailing the intricacies of 'tapas,' a tea/smorgasbord assortment of finger food traditional in Spain. Her brain clicked on the concept and she looked down the hall, a glint in her eyes as the thought formed itself. She had a total of four rooms -- one with a bathroom, so she kind of wasn't counting that. She could set up a variety of surprises and let him take his pick.

She reached into the back of the suitcase she'd stashed under the bed in the guest room. With a sigh, she pulled out an ornate box with East Indian art on it. She'd been saving it for his birthday, but that was about three months off yet, and she knew she'd never make it that long. This she set up in the bedroom; she pulled the blankets down, making sure they were perfectly folded and straight, that the sheets were tucked in neatly. On a mirrored tray on his nightstand, she set out bottles, jars, and a small brush. Massage oils, lotions, honey dust -- she thought the theme would blend well with the potential of using the large bath tub...that is, if that was what he chose. She quickly set out scented candles and hid a few bottles of water under the bed. Just in case.

She moved to the guest room. The bed was a single with a mission style head board. Her lips curled in a devious smile. She went to one of the boxes she's stashed in the closet, fishing out a flannel sheet. She folded it in half, length-wise, and cut it neatly and precisely. Then, folding the pieces in half width-wise, made another cut. Finally, she had four separate pieces which she cut three times each, braiding the soft cloth and knotting two on the slats of the head board, and the others at the foot board. More candles, more water under the bed. That seemed to be a decent on-going plan. It needed something else. She laid a sleeping mask on the foot of the bed. Maybe a tray of fresh fruit and some wine. Chess board? Strip chess? She'd set that up at the last minute and see what happened.

Behind door number three -- the room he used as his study, and housed some of his more temperature sensitive pets in -- she hid a small portable CD player. Jars full of exotic specimens always made her think of the rainforest. She hunted down a white noise CD and kicked on the small fountain he never used. Instead of candles, she made good use of the three way lamp, putting a few drops of orchid scented oil on the bulb. The effect was simple, but had great potential.

Finally, the kitchen. She fixed a dinner that could be easily kept warm, in this case chicken parmesan. All she had to do was leave the plate in the oven on warm and throw cheese on top when he got in. She placed a pair of taper candles in the center of the table, set out linens, and went back to the guest room to root through the drawer where she kept her small collection of lingerie.

Everything was set.

**/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\**

He walked through the door at 8:30 am exactly. She heard the SUV pull into the drive way and stepped into the hallway, keeping it dark so that she could remain relatively obscure in the corner. He latched the door quietly and she saw him carefully taking off his shoes and hanging his jacket on a chair. She stifled a giggle when she realized that he thought she was asleep. She looked down at herself, a piece of her still couldn't believe she was doing this. It was totally out of character. Then again, what wasn't? It wasn't like she'd indulged herself in much of a personal life up until now...

Taking a deep breath, she sauntered down the hall, her steps silent, and leaned against the wall the opened out into the living room, watching him intently.

He must have felt her gaze. He turned around from locking the door and almost dropped his field kit. The only clothing she had on, that he could see, was a very sheer, lace bra, a simple garter belt, the associated stockings, and a pair of stiletto heels. All in matching black.

She just stared at him in silence, allowing herself a small smile at his surprise. Finally, she stepped forward, slowly crossing the room and wrapping her arms around his neck. With the heels, it wasn't as much of an effort to reach his ear as it was otherwise, so at least they had one benefit. "I told you I'd make up for that kiss," she purred into his ear, giving it a small kiss. His arms went around her waist, but his eyes still regarded her with disbelief.

She stepped back, so that she could watch his reaction better. "So," she said, pitching her voice low, "what would you like first. Dinner? Maybe a bath or a shower? I have a few surprises for you, but its up to you," just being near him was getting her heated up.

He looked at her, his eyes running from her toes to the top of her head and back to her eyes. "You look amazing," he breathed.

"You haven't seen the half of it," she smiled, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. "You just tell me what you're in the mood for. We have dinner," she nodded toward the kitchen. "Or you can check out your other options," she nodded toward the hall. "I'm yours. I'll be your concubine, and make every erotic dream you ever had real. I can indulge you with a massage. Run you a bath..." she let her eyes fall to his shoulders.

He regained his composure, leaving one arm around her waist as he led the way into the living room. "All this for a kiss?" he lifted an eyebrow.

"Well, that and putting up with me," she said, stepping ahead of him slightly so that he could glimpse her muscular legs, hoping that they would entice him into making a decision quickly.

"I don't know where to start," he said quietly, pulling her around to face him, his hand resting on the curve of her neck.

"Have you eaten since before your shift?" she asked.

"No," he looked a little sheepish.

She pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. "That won't do," she said, leading him into the kitchen, where the table was set. She settled him into a chair, lit the candles, and went to the oven to top the chicken with marinara and mozzarella, then turned the oven up slightly. A few moments later, he had dinner laid in front of him, wine in a glass, and she had pulled her chair as close to his as she could get it.

Her hand ran up and down his leg as she let her gaze wander over his face. _You are acting like an infatuated fool_, she scolded herself, and she could tell he felt a little awkward. She stood up and stepped behind him, pressing herself into his back as he sat with his meal, and began massaging his shoulders lightly.

He leaned his head back in his chair to look at her, "do we have dessert?" he asked, his meaning obvious.

"Well, that depends," she told him, stepping back to the front and sitting in his lap, winding her arms around his neck and her fingers in his hair. "What kind of dessert are you in the mood for? Something fresh, something exotic, or something quick?" she asked.

Both of his eyebrows went up and he took his time removing his glasses and laying them on the glass topped table. His arms held her tight, and she thought he must be able to feel her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest, wondering what he would want. He was definitely taking his time considering his options, and she began to fidget in his lap, awaiting his answer. One of his hands skated from her hip, over her waist, to cup her breast, running his thumb over her nipple. The sensation, even through the fabric of her bra, set all her nerves on edge.

"Can I get a little more detail?" he asked, the want in his eyes belying the calm of his voice.

She smiled a little, "there are three rooms set up, other than the kitchen. You could, of course, have your dessert right here and now. But only if you want."

She moved from his lap, letting him wander down the hall, while she took his plate and wine glass to the sink, and moved the candles to the side of the table.

"You've been busy," he said slowly, as he walked back toward her. She could hardly believe she hadn't fallen over -- she must be close to a heart attack. How much longer could he draw this out? "I think that I'll start in the bedroom, though," he said, his hands clutching at her waist and lifting her. "That would be 'exotic,' correct?"

She wound her legs around his waist and her arms held close to his shoulders, burying her face in his neck, pressing kisses into his warm skin, as he carried her into the bedroom.

Once there, he set her gently on her feet, and his hands rested on her shoulders. "I'm going to spoil you rotten," she told him as she fingered the buttons of his shirt, slowly undoing them from the bottom up, then pushing the garment from his shoulders. "I've been thinking of you all night," she kissed his chest as her hands ran the shirt down his arms and finally pushed it to the floor. "Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

"No," he replied, "why don't you tell me."

She looked up into his eyes, a little surprised at his answer. "I haven't had a thought in my head that could be rated under NC-17," she confessed. "I think about how your skin feels next to mine," she told him, pressing herself into his bare chest, "I think about how you smell," again, she buried her head in the crook of his shoulder and indulged herself, "I think about how you taste," her tongue reached out to caress him. "I imagine the sound of your voice," her kisses and light flick of her tongue trailed up to his ear. "The way your hands feel, and your lips, all over me, making me want you," her voice was barely above a whisper, "making me want to make love to you, making me want to feel your weight on top of me, feel you inside me," she felt like her heart would stop, as if to speak was to create the act. "I love you," she closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder, taking a few deep breaths to steady herself. "I want to take care of every desire you have. Tell me what you want," she looked into his depthless blue eyes again.

"Well, we're even," he laughed softly. "I had to hide in my office all night because I wasn't fit for polite company," his hands covered hers and pushed them down to his waist. She took the hint and undid the button of his pants, then with a quirk of a smile, knelt slowly in front of him and pulled the zipper down with her teeth. Once they were pooled around his ankles, she moved to take the waistband of his boxers in her teeth as well, delicately pulling them down, making sure that her breath and her lips grazed his hardening penis. She pulled the garments, including his socks, from his feet, distracting him from the potential awkwardness of the moment by letting her lips play over his inner thigh.

She slowly stood up again, taking care to make the motion as fluid as possible. "Now what?" she asked. "Tell me what you want."

He said nothing as his mouth met hers, his tongue reaching deep into her, tasting all of her he possibly could. Her own tongue worked over his, reaching and caressing him. She felt the straps of her bra slip down her shoulders under the warmth of his hands and let herself lean into him. _Why couldn't he have picked 'quick!' _ she thought, frustrated; she pulled in a deep breath in an effort to calm herself. He released her from the kiss, and his gaze locked hers. "Do you know what I've wanted all night?"

She shook her head, not trusting her voice.

His lips sank to her shoulder as his fingers reached between her breasts to pop the clasp on her bra. Delicately, almost reverently, he smoothed one panel of fabric away from her breast with one hand, then holding it firmly while the other hand swept away the other side of the garment. "You."

Unable to protest, she let him softly push her onto the bed, so that she was sitting at the edge of the mattress. He knelt down in front of her, his gaze dragging her eyes with him. She watched, trying not to tremble, as his gentle fingers unhooked one stocking from its outer clasp. "I've wanted to lose myself in you," he told her. "To taste your lips," his hands moved to the other stocking, again working the clasp on the outside of her leg. "You were good tonight," he reached further down to pull off one shoe, and then the other. "You're amazing." His hands wandered back up her legs, fingers delving between them this time, completely freeing one stocking and guiding it down her leg, dropping it to the floor. His lips started at her knee, roaming over her leg up toward her hip, while he divested her of her other stocking. The proximity of his fingers to her heated center was almost more than she could bear. "And I come home and find you ready to wait on me hand and foot," his breath on her skin was setting her nerve endings on fire. "You should get spoiled, not me."

She could hardly believe what she was hearing. He was about two steps from neatly turning the tables on her and she wouldn't have that. Her hands went to his arms and she pulled him up on the bed beside her. She leaned into him for all she was worth, pressing her lips to his, her tongue caressing his lower lip, her hands winding into his hair, pulling him onto the bed. She broke away from him briefly, "that's all well and good, but you can start by telling me what you want me to do to you." Her voice was still soft, but the tone had become slightly commanding. She had him lying on his back, and when he reached for her, she dodged him. Instead, she enticed him to stretch out along the length of the bed, and kneeled at the end, near his feet. From the assortment of bottles on the nightstand, she selected a heavy lotion that smelled slightly crisp and spicy, pouring a small amount into her hand and working it into the soles of his feet. Her thumbs pressed into his arches, loosening knots that had been there since he could remember, then slipped under his heels to pull the tension from his Achilles tendon. Watching his eyes slip shut and his breathing slow, she bent forward to kiss the tip of each of his toes, carefully studying his body language for reaction.

Her massaging fingers followed the slow progress of her lips up his well muscled calves. When her hands reached the back of his knees, she gentled her touch, and he groaned appreciatively. "I give up," he said, barely opening his eyes to look at her, "spoil me." His eyes slipped back shut, and she smiled, knowing that she had won this round. Her lips strayed to his inner thigh, her teeth softly closing on the warm flesh she found there, tongue sneaking past her teeth to taste his skin.

Fingers began working with more pressure on the back of his thighs and hips, until she felt the muscle loosen and become pliable in her hands. His breath was coming shorter, punctuated by gasps of pleasure and soft moans. She smiled to herself, and ran her tongue from the front of his hip to just above where the tip of his penis rested near his abdomen, making sure to stay maddeningly close without touching him. The result was no sigh or moan, but a sharp hiss of breath, sucked in through clenched teeth. She sat up, taking a moment to gaze at him before he opened his eyes. His body, stretched out in front of her, took her breath away. He was beyond attractive -- the only word she could think of that would suffice was beautiful.

Thoughtfully, she selected another bottle from the tray. Another lotion, light weight and, according to the bottle, completely edible, the ingredients of which were supposed to be an aromatherapeutic aphrodisiac as well and sensitizing the skin where it was applied. She set it down on the bed for the moment, so it would be within easy reach when she wanted it.

Her fingers reached around his back and worked the muscles there in small, tight circles, using his weight to help her loosen the knots she found. Her lips tasted every tiny increment of his skin they could find, their touch randomly anywhere from a simple brush to more aggressive use of teeth. She found a sensitive spot just below his ribs and sucked warmth to the surface, losing herself for a moment, finding herself glad that a shirt would cover the mark she'd left. As her hands reached his shoulders, she playfully ran her tongue around his nipples, finishing her attention to them with delicate bites, savoring the growl that rumbled in his throat at her actions.

When her tongue found its way to his ear, his eyes opened slowly and he turned to look at her for a moment; she was arrested by his eyes, and while she sat helpless, his fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her roughly to his lips. The intensity of the kiss stole the breath from her lungs, and left her helplessly sagging into his body. "I want you," he growled, his strong arms tightening around her.

"Really?" she teased, leaning in for another kiss. He mumbled something against her lips, and she smiled, slipping out of his grasp.

He looked at her with an expression that was torn between severe aggravation and utter helplessness. "Please?" he asked, watching as she reached for the bottle she'd laid on the bed. Recognizing that she was nowhere near finished with him, he let his head fall back to the pillow with a resigned sigh.

The substance was like whipped glycerin, sinking readily into skin, leaving behind a smell reminiscent of amber and cinnamon. Taking some between her hands to warm it up, she lightly caressed it onto the skin of his thighs, sinking her hands between his legs and up to his balls, gingerly cupping them in one hand while she let her fingernails graze their way down his stomach to his throbbing penis. Another groan escaped him, and his hips arched up into her hands. "Patience, Adonis," she scolded, paraphrasing his words from the first time he'd made love to her. He scowled at her, but again relinquished control when her lips began paying exquisite attention to his almost painfully aroused shaft. She set a leisurely pace, tasting his skin underneath the smell of the lotion, finding the combination to be an amazing erotic mix. She kissed, licked and sucked at him, listening as his groans became more desperate, his moans louder, and his words incoherent. She used her tongue to massage the delicate, silky skin, and bit back a moan of her own as she felt herself wet and aching for him.

She pulled him into her mouth, swallowing all of him, completely, humming her contentment and desire around the base of his penis. She felt him clamp down on his desire and knew he was close to coming. Still, she let her tongue tease him, bobbing her head, moaning deep in her throat, until a spasm rippled through him so forcefully that he cried out and sat upright.

"Enough," he panted. He pulled her into his lap facing him, two fingers diving into her center, making her throw her head back and gasp. Assuring himself that her need mirrored his own, he sat back against the headboard, pulling her with him. She straddled his hips and lowered herself onto him. His head fell to her shoulder and his voice rose in a cry of need.

He pumped into her a few times, enough to take the edge from his desperation, before his hands were on her legs again, this time bending her knees so that he could hook her (luckily flexible) legs over his shoulder, allowing him better access to her depths.

His first thrust carried him all the way into her, and he propped his legs up to support her back. The transfer of the lotion from his legs to her own was making her flesh tingle, electrifying her nerves at his every touch, no matter how light. His thighs brushed hers with a second thrust, this one harder, and she called out his name in sheer delight.

He was buried in her, throbbing and thrusting and filling her empty, aching need with himself. She found her hip muscles contracting sharply, pulling her body up so that she could lower herself into him. His hands were on her hips, and she was delirious when another cry tore its way from his throat. He was pulling her into him, frantic with need, helpless to the craving she had instilled in him.

She felt her voice leave her lips in an abstracted way, unaware she was going to form words until they spilled from her. "Gil," she gasped, muscles tightening around him as he pushed into her tight, hot core. "Oh Gil...love that. Love...you...more...ohplease.

More. Harder? God...mmmm...godyes..." she was babbling, trying to communicate to him the depth of her desire. He obliged her every request, pumping into her faster and harder, calling her name, wrapping his arms around her to pull her as close as he could.

The world around her became small, her awareness fixed to a pinpoint that was where their bodies connected, becoming one. Then, consciousness expanded. Swelling; or maybe he was swelling, filling her completely, or maybe he was and she was with him; with every desperate, panted demand or plea, her awareness of him grew, as if she could feel him in every cell of her body. And even that wasn't enough. She wanted more. She wanted to be in every cell of his body, so that they could never be separated.

He pulled her hips down onto him again, pushing himself into her as far as he could, and even then trying for more, pushing into her g-spot, brushing her cervix, making her writhe in his lap. Again and again, he thrust into her like this, and finally rolled over on top of her, pinning her to the bed, her legs still over his shoulders. Sweat dripped from him onto her, burning rivulets of him into her skin. His lips pressed into hers passionately and her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her fingernails digging into his back.

In response, one of his fingers reached between them, finding her clit, stroking the sensitive spot just underneath it, until she felt her hips bucking uncontrollably into his, and her muscles clench spasmodically capturing his heated arousal, pulling him into her and holding him there. His hips met hers with short, intense bursts of energy, enough to push him helplessly into orgasm. He shuddered over her as he felt his pent up seed explode from him.

The first twitch of his release threw her into ecstasy. Her senses were overloaded, inundated with him on top of her, his muscles rippling and tightening and shaking against hers, his voice in her ears, his hands on her body, his lips on hers, the smell and taste of him, the feel of him in her, first spilling into her then the way his thrusts slowed almost reluctantly. Her back arched sharply and she collapsed under him, panting and sweating, waiting for him to lie down on top of her so that she could wrap her arms around him and hold his body close.

It took a few minutes longer than usual for the exhausted couple to regain their breath, and Gil applied his own massage skills to the backs of her legs so that they wouldn't cramp when he let the down from his shoulders. She was lying on the bed, to all appearances, still lost in the ecstasy of their love making. His muscles shook as he unwound himself from her and lay down next to her, pulling her into his embrace.

**/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\**

**Chapter Fourteen: Subtle**

Catherine settled herself on the couch next to Vanessa. The two women were alone in the town house, Gil having gotten sucked into a double. Vanessa, still trying to shake the sleep from her head, cupped her coffee mug between both hands, trying to figure out what the chipper red-head wanted that was worth waking her up after a long night at the community center.

"Wish I had a date for the law enforcement ball" Catherine sighed wistfully, chancing a glance in the other woman's direction.

"Mmmph," Vanessa replied into her coffee. The last thing on her mind was some empty headed social event. The first thing on her mind was crawling into bed and pretending she never had to crawl out again. Somewhere in between the two, she was aware that she was a little hungry. And that her shoulder hurt. _In the words of Lindsey, 'duh,'_ she thought to herself. She'd broken up a fight that evening, but only barely. It had taken all her strength to keep the two young men away from each other, and now she was paying for it.

"I'm sure you can find a date," Vanessa told her, hoping she was hitting the right button. "Who wouldn't want to go with someone like you?"

"I don't know," she sighed again. "Are you and Grissom going?"

"He hasn't mentioned a thing about it. I don't think he's made any plans for it," Vanessa said, taking another gulp of coffee. Catherine was leading up to something, she could feel it even through the aches in her bones that came from pure physical exhaustion.

"That's too bad," Catharine sipped her coffee and looked at Vanessa calculatingly over the rim of the cup. "You'd be the luckiest woman there -- when that man wears a tux, women slip in puddles of their own drool."

"I can well imagine," Vanessa acknowledged. "Despite that, I don't have anything to wear to a thing like that, and I don't have the budget for it," a sly smile crept over her face, "besides. I already know I'm the luckiest woman around."

The senior investigator's jaw dropped, and she broke into giggles, "is that so?"

Vanessa looked at her archly, "a lady does not kiss and tell."

"Pleading the Fifth. That's all the confirmation I needed," she said. "You two are official, huh?"

Vanessa stared hard into her coffee mug.

"You two are just alike," she said, exasperated. "Okay, let's just say I think you two should go. Put a cramp in Ecklie and Atwater's game."

That brought a light to Vanessa's eyes. Then she looked up sharply. "What game?"

"Just the usual stuff. Dump on grave shift. Dump paper on Grissom. That kind of stuff."

"I don't believe that's all there is to it," Vanessa told her flatly, her temper dispelling some of her fatigue.

"The gossip mill has been running over time. He damn near got suspended, again, last week. Ecklie and crew were inferring that you two were together before the proposal was finished."

"Oh really," Vanessa grated, standing up and taking her cup to the sink.

"He didn't say anything?"

"No, he didn't." Vanessa's mind tangled around who she should be more irritated with. Admin for being a bunch of self serving brats? Herself for not picking up on this? Gil for not telling her anything?

"I'll tell you what. We never had this discussion. I'll convince him to go to the event on Thursday. I'll help you figure out something to wear, as well. I used to sew most of my own costumes -- now I just sew Lindsey's," she chuckled. "From g-strings and pasties to Spongebob and fairies"

Vanessa's eyes were hard when she turned to face the other woman. "Done. Otherwise I'm going down there right goddam now. They've crossed two very important lines all at once."

"Which ones are those?

"Doubting the integrity of my work, and threatening Gil -- not necessarily in that order."

Catherine left the house satisfied of two things. That the office politics wouldn't have a chance to hurt the grave shift yet again, and that her best friend had finally found someone who would put him first. She was also greatly looking forward to seeing the two of them together in formal dress. Next thing on her agenda was to get Gil to agree. But she had a plan there, too. If she could convince Warrick to bring his girlfriend, it would take some of the spotlight off the fundamentally shy scientist, and that would help.

Vanessa did her best to hide her temper from Gil when he got home. He was obviously exhausted, kicking his shoes off at the door, dropping his leather jacket haphazardly on the couch, and heading to the kitchen for a glass of water, which he carried into the bedroom rather than spending the time to drink it by the sink.

She'd been dozing fitfully on his side of the bed, his smell lingering on the sheets having a calming effect on her. "Bed hog," he teased her gruffly as he sat down on the edge of the bed to get undressed.

"Just keeping your side warm for you," she said, wrapping her body around him where he sat and pressing kisses into his leg. "Besides. I only hog blankets," she admitted.

This earned her a harumph as he stood up and wandered into the bathroom to rinse his face and hastily freshen up.

"Hurry up, being naked by myself sucks," she called, burrowing further under the covers.

Tired eyes regarded her from around the door frame. "Demanding?"

She pouted, "lonesome?"

He just shook his head and walked back into the room, ignoring her appreciative stare, and crawled into bed beside her. His arms went around her shoulders, pulling her close. "Better?"

She kissed the soft skin on his chest and nodded. His hands went to her shoulders. "What's with the knots?"

"Had to break up a fight last night," she yawned.

"That explains some of it, but what about these?" he pressed lightly on the back of her neck.

She yelped. "What about them?"

His fingers strayed to her jaw. "And these?"

"Again, what about them?"

He tipped her chin up to look at her, "what's going on?"

Her temper flared, "oh, that's just nice. You can read me like a book, but you never let on when something is bothering you?"

He sat back a little bit, eyes growing more alert. "What's this about?"

"A little bird told me that admin is trying to fuck with you again," she said, unable to keep the heat out of her voice. "And as far as I'm concerned, no one gets away with that."

"A little bird? Would that bird's name be Catharine," he ventured.

"I'm really not supposed to say," she said smirking, "but she left me alone to stew on it all morning till you got back, and I've been worrying. I think she's right. I think that damn dance would be the appropriate opportunity for me to set them straight."

"Aha," Gil looked distracted. "The waters are clearing. She was talking to Warrick about taking Tina, and then she tried to convince me to go. Do you know how much I hate wearing a tux?" he looked at her.

"Do you know what a bastard it is to wear heels?" she returned. "But its public. It would be possible for me to corner each one of the problem children and lay things straight with them. No question about whether any deals were made out of the sight of the public..."

"What's to set straight?" he asked, brows furrowed.

"I'll tell you what's to set straight. Nobody questions the integrity of my work. And nobody but _nobody_ dicks you around," she stopped before her language could sink any further than it already had. She was angry enough to start breaking into 'fluent longshoreman,' as she called it.

He didn't wipe the look of surprise off his face before she saw it. "I know. I told you I'm not much of a lady. 'Poor Professor Higgins' would have hung himself from the nearest rafter with his own cravat if he'd had to deal with me," she said, shaking her head. "But I'm serious. I'll cut those bastards, every last one of them, off at their knees if they don't shape up and leave you alone. If they think I'll hesitate before I bury their careers, they'd better think again. It wouldn't take me long to get at the necessary dirt, either, now that I've made some political connections locally," her eyes narrowed. "Wonder if I could buy off Hodges..."

"Forget Hodges," he told her gently, "and you shouldn't worry about me. I've been able to work around them for the last six years, I think I can do it a while longer."

"That's not the issue here," she said sharply, "the point is, they are taking it out on you, and I'm not gonna let that pass for a second. Not from anyone. I don't give a shit who it is. I swear, if I wouldn't get busted for hitting a cop, I'd treat them like the over grown middle schoolers they are and invite them to take it outside." She was getting angrier by the second.

He'd seen that look in her eyes before. There would be no getting her to back off; she'd settle the issue once and for all, and God help anyone who got in her way. In fact, he almost felt a moment's pity for Ecklie and company. He sighed, "Okay. Go ahead and worry about me," he told her, resigned. "Can we at least go to sleep?"

She wrapped her arms around him as he settled down under the blankets, holding him close and kissing him until his breathing deepened and she knew he was asleep. Only then could she drift off herself.

_**Two weeks later...**_

It was Thursday night -- Vanessa had spent an hour and a half preparing for their 'outing.' It had taken every wile in Catherine's impressive repertoire to convince Gil to go, and Vanessa had been content to leave it to the other woman to nag him about it.

"Are you almost ready?" there was a tap at the bathroom door.

"I suppose," she huffed, looking at herself in the mirror with a grimace. She was never completely content with her reflection, though, so she put her scowl aside and tried one more time, in vain, to get a few stray strands of hair into the twist at the back of her head.

The door clicked open, and she turned around to face him. Catherine had been right -- no one on the face of the planet had every been more right about anything ever. He looked absolutely delicious in a tux.

"Does drooling ruin makeup?" he asked, hiding a smile.

"Sorry," she fumbled. "You look incredible. I'm gonna have to find more excuses to make you throw on a monkey-suit."

"So its worth wearing heels for?"

"And spending an hour on my damn hair, and putting on more makeup than I care to," she told him. She turned back to the counter quickly and threw on one last spray of her favorite cologne, grabbed her lipstick to throw in her purse, and headed for the doorway, making sure to get a good look at his ass when he turned around to take the lead. _Yup. Drool could really ruin makeup, _she thought, giving her lipstick a glance.

"You remember that I suck at slow dancing, right?" she reminded him, her heels clicking softly on the driveway as they headed to the car.

"I think you'll manage," he laughed at her.

_"_Yeah, I hope that's still your attitude when all your toes are broken," she teased.

It took them twenty minutes to get to the hall the department had rented for the evening. Vanessa took a deep breath to steady her nerves as Gil rounded the car to help her out. She took his hand gratefully, three inch spike heels not being conducive to hopping out of an SUV. He leaned close to her, lips grazing her ear, "you're beautiful."

"Flattery gets you everywhere with me," she teased, looking up and batting her mascara-ed eye lashes at him.

"Purple is a wonderful color for you," he told her, his arms sliding around her waist as he led her to the door.

"I thought you didn't like public gatherings," she said.

"I don't. But I get to show you off, and I get to watch you throw a wrench in the administration's spokes, so maybe it won't be so bad. I've pretty much adjusted myself to being here," he sighed.

"I'm just glad that Catherine was able to alter this dress to fit me," she said, looking down at herself. It had been a size too large, but the red head's skill with a sewing machine had brought the hem of the bias cut skirt up to above her knees, and tailored the bodice so that it fit her figure like a glove -- without being restrictive. "If I hadn't found it at the second hand store, I don't know what I would've done."

"Catherine's resourceful, I'm sure she would have come up with something for you," he pulled her close as they entered the hall.

There was a waltz playing, tables were set with white linens along the edges of the room, there was a bar at the back, and French doors opened to an airy patio at the back of the room. "Let me get this straight," she looked up at Gil, "they squawk about overtime, but they can go hog wild with this?"

"With their humblest thanks to the good tax paying citizens of Clark County, I'm sure," he snarked in return.

She nodded and they made their entrance. Catherine, in a close conversation with Nick, was the first to spot them. She was draped in royal blue silk, and obviously enjoying the event. "I really should go over there and thank her again. I know I'm a pain in the ass for fittings," she suggested.

"Your wish is my command," he told her gallantly, steering them toward the other two night shift investigators.

Vanessa scanned the room briefly, trying to locate her targets for the evening. Ecklie was sitting at the bar looking surly, obviously having come by himself. Atwater was hobnobbing with local officials, his wife standing unobtrusively by his side. She also noticed other women in the room darting their eyes at the man by her side. Again, Catherine wasn't making light of the effect he had on the so-called fair sex. Vanessa counted herself fortunate that jealousy had never been among her personal attributes.

When they caught up with Catherine and Nick, they were just in time to see Greg bouncing up to them, wearing a zoot suit, complete with fedora. Unable to help herself, Vanessa laughed good naturedly at the younger man's energy. She'd grown rather attached to him, his antics always making her smile in spite of herself.

"Hey! You look great!" he said, looking up when he heard her laugh. "So you two are outing yourselves, finally?" he looked from his boss to her, grinning widely.

"I suppose that would be the case," Gil said evenly, then looked at the woman at his right and allowed himself a small smile, deciding that she definitely needed to find more clothes in that particular shade of purple. It set off the red in her hair and the gray of her eyes without making her complexion look pale or washed out.

"Do you want me to grab you something from the bar? I was just going to head that way," Nick asked, breaking the silence.

"No, I have business to conduct in that direction," she said, eyeing the administrator with narrowed eyes. "This isn't just a social event as far as I'm concerned," she told the small group matter-of-factly. "In fact, I'm just going to get this over with."

She sauntered over to the bar, aware of Gil's eye following her every move. She suppressed a happy shiver as she neared Ecklie. She sat down, crossing her legs at the ankles, pointing her feet to accentuate the length and musculature of her legs. She'd learned a few things about 'lines' in all those years of ballet. She'd also learned, in her experiences, that posture could be an important intimidation factor. Every move she made was calculated, from how she walked, to sitting behind Ecklie, so that his back was to her, giving her the element of surprise.

She flagged the bar tender, "do you have any pinot noir?" He nodded. "One glass, please," she placed a couple dollars under the napkin he handed her for a tip.

"I can't accept that, ma'am. I'm sorry," he said, eyeing the money.

"Nonsense," she eyed him critically, noting the tired eyes, the callused middle finger, and the student caliber hair cut that he'd done his best to disguise. "What are you studying?"

"Political science, ma'am," he said, looking surprised.

"If you call me ma'am one more time," she shuddered, smiling at him, "you'll have worse things to worry about than that hair cut. What are you planning to do when you graduate?"

He relaxed some, "thinking about going into international relations, so I thought PeaceCorps might be a good start."

"It'd be an excellent start," she told him with an approving nod. She fished in her purse for a business card and handed him one. "I'm doing some work at the University," she started, then pushed the money at him, "and consider this a generous donation to your coffee fund. One social science person to another." She winked and he pocketed the bills discretely, then headed toward the other end of the bar to wait on another couple.

"Well, Conrad, gonna bust me for tipping the wait staff?" she asked, her tone sharpening.

He turned around, the polished politician in him hiding the mild buzz of alcohol in his system. "I don't know, does that have the potential to corrupt your work?"

She sipped at her wine, giving it a casual, approving nod. "Not bad," she commented out loud. "What's this about suspending Gil?" she dropped the question in his lap like an anvil.

"I guess he has to have his woman fight his battles for him now, is that it?"

Vanessa pretended to ponder that for a moment, shifting her gaze to the chandelier above them, then lowering it to meet his eyes straight on. "And I suppose that's why you're here by yourself?" It was a personal shot, a low blow, but it hit a nerve. She rested her elbow casually on the bar and made an effort to pull her face into a pleasant mask. She took another sip of wine and nodded at the bar tender with a smile, "This really is quite good, you should try some."

"Whether I'm here alone or not is not the issue," he countered.

Vanessa smiled, "well, if his personal life is on review here, then yours is too, as far as I'm concerned," she tilted her head to the side, "so what is it, really. Why do you feel like you have to flip him so much shit?"

The administrator seemed at a loss for a second, "why do I...I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do," Vanessa chided lightly. "And yes, I'll fight his battles. The difference is I'll be fighting them _with_ him. Its simply a question of difference in how we handle things. That's a luxury you don't have any more, if I'm not mistaken," she told him, watching him wince a little as she again mentioned his divorce, however obscurely.

Recovering, he made an attempt to throw her off balance, "you know, I can see why he likes you. You're cute when you're angry," he reached over and covered her hand with his.

She jerked her hand away as if she'd been burned. "Keep it up. That's another line you've crossed," she glared openly. "Understand this, because I'm only going to tell you once. Don't mess with Gil. Don't question the integrity of my work. And don't ever touch me again," she spat.

He looked a little gratified by her reaction. "That's even better. In fact, that's down right hot," he told her, pushing the conversation a little further.

Vanessa stood up, and to Ecklie's surprise, smiled. It was all teeth, and held no warmth, however. "How big is your house?" she asked.

"Why?"

"In square feet. How big?"

"About 1500. Why?" he was obviously confused.

"Because, when I sue your ass off for sexual harassment, I want to know what I'm going to have to work with when its all over." She turned slowly and walked back to the small clutch of late shift investigators, giving the administrator all the time in the world to watch her retreating form as he spluttered indignantly.

"Well," she said, placing her arm in Gil's, "I think that one is handled." Her tone was crisp. The group had been watching the entire exchange, and with the exception of her glare, no one would have suspected anything untoward had occurred during the exchange.

"You really think so," Greg looked a little doubtful.

"I'd look out. He's bound to be surly as hell for the next few days. But yes, he's handled."

Gil's arm slipped protectively around her waist as another song was cued up on the PA system. It was 'Moonlight Serenade.' Gil looked at her with laughter in his eyes, remembering the first time he'd gotten her to dance with him, to this particular song, and said, "come on. Maybe you'll do better the second time around," and led her to the dance floor.

She wound one arm over his shoulder and let her other hand rest on his chest as he pulled her close. She closed her eyes, breathing deep, feeling safe in his arms. "So what happened back there?" he asked softly.

"Nothing much. I told him I'd sue him if he ever touched me again. I'm not much on frivolous law suits, but there's a piece of me that would do it gladly just to make him miserable. I think that should be enough of a collar on him to keep things level for a while."

He let his head rest on hers, smelling her shampoo, "you're incredible," he told her. "You realize we've slow danced an entire song and you didn't step on my feet once?"

She looked up, startled, and promptly put her foot down on his. "Okay, almost," he teased. "You over think these things."

"This from you?" she countered, laughing a little as they stepped back off to the sidelines. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash go off, turning just in time to see Catherine slip her camera back into her evening bag. Vanessa grimaced. "Is there any way to get that thing away from her?"

"Probably not," Gil told her. Atwater, who had watched the conversation she'd had with Ecklie, was walking toward them, wife in tow. Vanessa felt sorry for the woman, sitting in her husband's shadow, playing the perfect little home maker to boost his political career.

They approached. Atwater was at his polished best, smile beaming, ready to shake hands and spill flatteries in his wake.

He spilled flatteries at Vanessa almost immediately, "well, you certainly look better than the last time I saw you," he flashed too-white teeth at her. "And I never thought I'd see Grissom at one of these things. You must be socializing him."

Vanessa didn't even pretend to smile at his attempt at humor. "You're not getting my vote," she said flatly. "And you'd best start conducting yourself a little more professionally. I'm insulted that you'd question the integrity of my work, or that you would doubt Gil's ethics. If you have questions, you address them to me. You do not sneak around asking the team vague questions. You do not take it out on him, by threatening to suspend him. Are we understood?"

His wife huffed, her cheeks coloring, and she looked at her husband. "Well, if your work was biased by a relationship with a member of the graveyard shift --"

Vanessa cut him off. "And it wasn't. You can dig all you want, and you won't find a scrap of evidence that my work was biased. I, however, am sure that I can find plenty of skeletons in your closet if I dig in the right places."

"Well, who hasn't done something they regret in their lives," the sheriff tried to play down the comment.

"Can we step outside?" she indicated the open French doors. "Have a...private...conversation?" she finished with a pointed look at the sheriff's wife -- who, she noted, he hadn't even bothered to introduce.

She huffed again, but stayed where she was while Vanessa and the sheriff found themselves a relatively quiet spot with an open view of the party-goers inside. She reached into her purse, grateful she'd thought to bring her cigarettes. Although it was a sporadic habit, it was a habit, none the less. She took her time lighting one of them, watching the sheriff's body language intently.

"Dish," she finally commanded, "why the bullshit? And don't play dumb. Ecklie already tried that and it didn't get him anywhere either."

"Can I bum one of those off you?" he asked, eyeing her cigarette. "My wife will have my ass, but this is one of those times when I think it might be worth it."

Vanessa nodded, digging in her purse again, offering him the cigarette and her lighter. "I quit ten years ago and I've wanted one every day since," he confessed.

"That's why I never quit. I don't make a regular habit of them, but they don't nag at me the same way as if I'd stopped. I never really find myself missing them, and it makes it easier to stay away from them most of the time," Vanessa shared.

The sheriff looked intrigued by her line of reasoning. "Just be straight with me," she continued. "I think we both realize we could play games around each other until dooms day. Instead of tripping over each other, why don't we settle it once and for all."

"Its an election year, and he's challenging decisions that I can't afford to waver on right now," he told her, shrugging. "I figured if we could suspend him -- briefly -- for something small, maybe I could get some ground back."

Vanessa nodded again, digesting the new information. "What decisions?"

"Staffing decisions. It was my idea to break up the team. I thought the other shifts could benefit from it. Not my best play ever," he admitted, "that Sidle woman. She oughtta be fired. But he just doesn't go along with anything. Did anyone tell you about that time he broke a coffee pot in the break room because Conrad pissed him off?" The politician was beside himself.

"Backing up his team is what makes him a good supervisor. That's part of _why_ his team excels -- they're secure with each other and in their department. It liberates them to do their job and increase their knowledge without worrying about whose toes they're stepping on to do it," she started. "and yes, I know about the coffee pot in the break room. Its something of a legend," she laughed, genuinely this time. "Do you know why he was so pissed with Conrad?" she asked, sincerely curious.

"That was before my time here," Atwater tapped an ash off his cigarette.

"It was because he was cleaning up after Ecklie's mess. He almost sent a guy to the chair on evidence that he considered to be 'good enough.' Now how would that look for the department, now that so many death penalty cases are getting reviewed? He did you guys a favor. Conrad's ego got a little bruised, but ultimately it was worth it," she told him frankly. "Regardless of my personal views on capital punishment," she added as an aside.

The sheriff looked pensive. "I guess I should be more careful who I get my information from," he said, a little chagrined.

"If you look at the circumstances around his actions, you'll usually find there's a good reason for them. He might not want to share them right away, is all. He's probably the single most intelligent person in the entire department. He isn't terribly people-savvy, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't understand them. That's a mistake that a lot of people make, I think. If some sort of truce could be arrived at between him and Ecklie, I think it would make everyone's lives easier. Ecklie is gonna have to give some serious ground though," she warned at the last.

Atwater simply nodded, appearing to take her counsel to heart. "I don't know how I'm gonna broker that one, and that's a case you can't take anymore," he told her, looking a little sad as he deposited his spent cigarette in an ashtray.

She followed suit, a slow smile spreading across her face, "I think it can be done. Just go in there and step on his throat. You are the boss, aren't you?"

Atwater nodded, obviously still not relishing the conversation ahead of him. "I found that threatening him with sexual harassment works fairly well. I don't know if that's a ploy you can pull off, though. You might hear him complaining about that later, by the way," she turned to find him openly smiling at her. "Have we reached an understanding?" she asked.

"I believe so," he extended his hand and she took it willingly, solidifying their agreement with the age old signature of a hand shake.

"Good. That will definitely make life easier," she said wryly.

The rest of the evening was fairly easy. She relayed her conversation with the sheriff to Gil, who seemed surprised at her negotiation skills. "I think he just doesn't know how to anticipate you," she told him, smirking a little.

The next song was a tango. "You said you do ballroom, right?" Gil asked, raising his eyebrows at her.

She smiled, nodding, and he led her out to the dance floor again. She loved tangos. She would never admit it, but she'd sent Greg to track down the DJ and request one. She felt there was no better dance for showing off what a wonderful man she had on her arm. _Let 'em drown in their own slobber,_ she thought, unable to keep a hint of smugness out of her posture as she eyed the other women in the room.

He started the dance moderately tame, a little to her disappointment. He could tell by her posture that the second they stepped out for this one, that this was no mere exercise. She wanted to perform. It was in her posture, pulled up straight, shoulders back, eyes locked with his. "Who are you showing off for?" he asked, pulling her closer.

"I want to show every other woman here why I have you and they don't. And I want every guy in the room to be just a bit envious," she laughed at herself a little. "It sounds ridiculous, but I guess it comes from that competitive streak of mine. I can't help it. You're the best thing in this room, and I'm lucky enough to be with you," she looked down for a second, trying to cover a faint blush that rose to her cheeks.

"Well then, let's show them a thing or two," he smirked, surprising her. He led her across the floor, pulling her body into his, while she added a sultry sway to the way her hips and legs moved in coordination with his. When he extended his arm, indicating a spin was in order, she followed him precisely, allowing herself to be pulled back into the curve of his arm. As a final move, she stepped back from him with a wink and threw her leg up on his shoulder. He was surprised, but not to be outdone. He leaned forward, and she allowed her back to relax into a particularly deep dip.

She felt it more than she heard it -- a muffled percussion against her left side. Then she heard it. He was swearing through his teeth. His knee had chosen that precise moment to give him trouble.

She looked up at him and smiled, talking through her teeth. "No problem," she let her leg slip down from his shoulder until it was wrapped around his waist, "slowly straighten up and hang on to me with your right hand." He straightened with an effort and with no warning, she let her body drop, almost to the floor, the only thing catching her was their clasped hands. She extended her leg out in front of her while she leaned back on her left one. It'd been a long time since she'd tried this stunt. Still talking through her teeth, hoping to God he would hear her, "lifting with my hips. Just hang on, and make the finish look smooth." He nodded and she slowly, bonelessly, used the muscles in her hips to pull her forward and upright. He extended and lifted his arm over her head for a final turn, then pulled her against him.

Her eyes flew open in shock when he planted his lips on hers. "Very smooth finish," she complimented him a bit breathlessly.

"Why, thank you," he said almost primly, leaning into her to disguise a slight limp. "Good to know you've got my back," he told her, smiling in spite of himself. The rest of the assembled night shift had clapped for the couple at the last, and were waiting anxiously for them to rejoin the group.

"Anytime, anywhere," she told him quietly, pulling his hand to her lips.

**/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\**

When she awoke, still curled around his body, the first thing she noted was his voice. She looked up, and saw that he was still fast asleep, his breathing deep and even, and a smile on his face. He mumbled pleasantly as she moved against him. The next thing she noted was the head of his stiffened penis against her leg.

She smiled mischievously to herself and carefully moved her leg so as not to disturb him, then equally carefully slid under the covers. She squirmed down until she was even with his throbbing shaft. Smiling again, she licked her lips and bent over him, running her tongue over every inch of him before taking his head into her lips and taking him all the way into her mouth.

"Mmmm," he mumbled, stretching out a little. Her lips tightened at the base of his erection, and she sucked gently as she pulled back up before slowly dipping back down. Once again at the base, she let her tongue roam over the underside of his penis, pressing against the skin at the base, then snaking past her teeth to caress his balls. Her efforts were rewarded with a sleepy groan, but his steady breathing told her he was still dozing. Again she pulled back upwards, this time slowly and increasing the intensity of her suction, letting tongue play over him as she went, taking her time to tease the head, savoring the taste of him. Instead of swallowing him again, she caught him in her hand, curling her fingers around him gently as blew gently across him.

"Mmmm. Ohhh," he sounded a little more awake this time. She smiled and sucked him into her mouth again, all of him, all the way back to her throat, then back up, tightening her lips around him in a pulsating rhythm until she reached the head. Her hand remained where it had been, and continued to stroke any flesh her mouth left exposed.

"Ohhh," this time a breathless sigh, "God. Ohhhh." The last was almost a whimper, an odd sound coming out of him. She wondered if he realized yet that he wasn't dreaming. Her hand slid down to stroke and massage his inner thighs as her mouth once again descended. She was amazed at how hot she could get just being close to him, knowing the effect she had on him. His every moan filled her with an aching need that only he could address.

She felt fingers tangling in her hair, covers being lifted from her body. She looked up at him through heavy, dark lashes, and saw sleepy blue eyes that were almost hazy with desire. She changed her pace, quickening and shortening her oral attentions, varying the suction, all the while, her tongue played over him, wrapping around him, flicking at the underside of his head, rippling down the length of him. His back arched and fell as his hips pushed into her. Her head bowed to meet his thrust and another whimpering noise escaped his throat. "Jesus. God. Vanessa," each word was given in a panted exhale. The hands that were tangled in her hair ran down her neck and over her shoulders. She took advantage of her freedom of movement to drag her lips languorously back up him, keeping her eyes on his the entire time. He groaned in frustration.

"Please, Vanessa," he panted, his gaze locking with hers. "Come here. I...need you."

She shook her head and continued her attentions, the smile she couldn't entirely achieve with her lips showing in her eyes none the less. His eyes closed and he groaned loudly, his voice almost harsh. Her fingernails raked the inside of his leg, lightly, then slipping around the other side where she kneaded the muscles in the back of his thigh, making him gasp sharply. His own fingers were clutching the sheets underneath him as his hips came off the bed once more, thrusting into her warm, wet mouth. She deepened her suction and hummed her satisfaction around the base of his shaft, her lips conducting the vibrations of her voice into the sensitive flesh.

His hips fell back to the mattress and he sat up, looking at her almost feverishly. "Oh, God," he groaned, his hands finding her arms and beginning to pull her toward him. "God, please," he moaned into her shoulder, positioning her over him.

Again she shook her head, although she straddled his hips to tease him further. She glided her hips back and forth along his tortured penis. "Vanessa, God help me," he panted, "take me," his voice was commanding and almost pleading as he lay back into the pillows.

"Nope," she said smiling, reaching down between her legs to continue her teasing, gripping him in her fingers, stroking him, closing her fingers in a ring around the base and tightening them.

"Now. Please?" his voice was quieter, less demanding, more pleading.

"That's more like it," she purred.

His eyes snapped open, realizing what she was doing. She held his penis in one hand, teasing herself a little with the head, inching it back toward her opening. "Tell me how you want me," she said softly.

He almost gave up right then. He could swear he'd never been so aroused in his life. The contrary side of him fought back, though. "Keep it up," he growled, pushing his hips into her again. She anticipated the move and avoided his efforts. "Keep it up," he repeated between clenched teeth, "and I'll...I'll..."

"You'll what, tough guy?"

"I'll spank you!"

She looked at him and chuckled a little. "What if I just want you out of your mind?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave as she leaned over him to kiss his shoulders.

She squeaked with surprise when his hand made sharp contact with her bare ass. "Did you think I wouldn't do it?" he grated as she continued to hover over his engorged shaft. "Please. You have no idea. I need you," even with the slap on the ass, his eyes were pleading.

She trailed kisses up to his ear, finally whispering, "whatever you desire." She took him into her slowly, rocking her hips back and forth into his, relishing the different sensation of him inside of her from a new angle. His hands grasped her hips, controlling her motion and her speed, and she encouraged him. He ground himself into her, filling her, letting her feel the delicious stretch of his throbbing erection against her inner walls. She fell onto her hands, pushing desperately back onto him, pumping harder at the behest of his hands, which were now clutching at her curves as his back arched and his voice left him. He had gone from cries of sheer ecstasy to a breathless chant of her name.

He thrust into her sharply, and she could feel the pulsing spill of him into her -- the very thought of him, buried in her as far as he could go, spending himself into her depths, made her muscles contract and ripple as she clenched around him, pulling every last ounce from him, making his final cry fall in time with her own voice as she called his name. She felt the spasm in her core go seemingly on and on, robbing her muscles of control as she collapsed on top of him in a sweating, gasping heap.

Finally, the heated throbbing slowed, and she looked up at him, smiling. "Was that an okay way to wake up?" she asked, her voice feeling lazy in her throat.

He sighed deeply, returning her smile. "I can't remember waking up better," he told her honestly. "I hope I didn't hurt you..." he said, a frown flickering in his eyes.

"And if you did? You gonna kiss it better?" she laughed. She sensed more than saw his surprise at her question and looked up again at him from where her head was resting on his shoulder. With an effort, she allowed him to slide out of her and rolled over to snuggle him from his side. "You didn't hurt me," she told him seriously, "and it isn't like I didn't have fair warning." She burrowed under the blankets, pulling him closer to her, so that her lips rested just under his ear. "My goal, however, was to please you to the point of incoherency," she breathed. "And since you could still think straight enough to make demands, I guess I'll have to try again."

**/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\**

The phone next to the bed rang shrilly, causing her to swear and duck her head under the covers. He unwrapped one arm from around her shoulders and reached over to answer it, with no less grumbling than his partner.

"Oh...hi, Mom," she heard him say.


	4. Part 4

**Author's Note: Back to business here. And since the other one is short, I'm posting two. Resurrecting a couple problem children from earlier seasons (its a surprise). **

**Disclaimers: bunches this time. The cockatiel has her perch, the fish have their food, but I'm broke. And staying that way. My employer has a provision preventing me from outside employment. I borrowed the following: Sherlock Holmes, Lauren Bacall, Offspring, Eminem, and Riverdance. I won't be making a dime off them, either.**

**Part Four**

**Chapter Fifteen: Roots**

She couldn't help smiling. _Talk about timing,_ she thought to herself. Without thinking about their respective positions, he sat up in bed, placing her head in his lap again.

"Don't even _think_ it," he mouthed at her, trying to look stern. She stuck her tongue out briefly and settled down, closing her eyes. It was nice just to lay there and listen to his voice, even if she couldn't indulge her sense of humor, twisted though it might be on occasion.

He returned to his conversation. "Of course, you and Ruth can come out. You're welcome here any time...you're driving? Which route?...That'll take a while. I wish you'd fly, it isn't like I couldn't pick you up from the airport...I worry about you, is all, with just Ruth to drive the whole way..." his voice was a little exasperated. "I know, Mom. You always used to tell me that, but I think I'm big enough to worry, now. What is it that you aren't telling me?..." there was a long pause, and Vanessa couldn't stop herself from turning into his leg to stifle her laughter. _The many sides of Gil Grissom...enigma, scholar, Don Juan -- seducer of community organizers, and apparently someone's little boy, still..._she shifted a little and bit down on her knuckle to keep herself from braying her laughter out loud. Tears had long since welled up in her eyes and were now coursing down her cheeks.

Finally he spoke again, "Hello, Ruth...I'm fine." Another long pause. "Well, my good friend Catherine does get around, doesn't she?" it wasn't really a question, and it was filled with irritation. He sighed heavily, "no, I just wish she would have left it to me to tell you guys. Is that what Mom was dodging earlier?...mmm-hmmm. Figures. Last time you guys were out, I was afraid that she and Catherine hit it off a little too well...huh?" he almost squeaked. Then he blushed, red moving up from the under his beard practically to the roots of his hair. Then he mumbled, "yeah...she's right here..." and stuck the phone at her.

Her eyes went wide and she shook her head frantically, holding her hands out in front of her as if to ward off something far more menacing than a piece of plastic and electronic components. He stuck the phone at her more insistently, and she cringed and took the receiver. "Hello?" she started, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

"Hello," the voice was faintly accented, Eastern European if she were to hazard a guess...which was a good thing as far as she was concerned. It meant that she was talking to Ruth rather than to his mother. She'd rather talk to Ruth, than to his mother. For some reason, Vanessa found herself completely intimidated by his mother. "So, you are our Gil's lady friend?"

Vanessa gulped and tried to keep her cool. "I suppose you could say that. You must be Ruth -- he's told me a great deal about both of you."

There was a lively chuckle on the other end, "Ach! That can't be a good thing," then her tone shifted and was serious again, "I know he's sitting there listening, is there any way you can go to another room?"

Vanessa gulped again and nodded, as if the gesture were audible, and darted a nervous glance over at Gil, who was sitting there looking cranky. She found her voice again as she settled her robe over her shoulders and ambled in the direction of the kitchen. "Of course. I should probably start the coffee anyhow. Is there something you want to know about me?" she asked, amazed at her own bravado.

"How do you feel about our boy?" Boy, this woman didn't pull any punches.

Her hands were shaking as she scooped coffee into the filter, causing her to spill some of the grounds on the counter, in turn causing her to swear under her breath, "c'mon Vanessa, get your _toches_ in gear," she grumbled at herself while formulating an answer.

"What did you say?" the voice was now very sharp, making her jump, and almost drop the coffee pot in the sink.

"Shit!" it burst from her lips unbidden. Then she caught herself, and found herself in worse shape than ever. "I'm so sorry. That's a rotten first impression, I know. Its just that I'm nervous, and I spilled the coffee, and then I almost dropped the pot..."

"No. What did you say?" the tone was a little more inquisitive this time. "I could swear I heard you speaking Yiddish."

"Well, yes," Vanessa found herself chuckling a little, "I was sort of scolding myself for spilling the coffee grounds."

"You're Jewish?"

"Is that a problem? I know Gil's mother is Catholic..." she let the thought hang where it was.

"A problem? You think this should be a problem? I should go down to the Temple right now and rub that crusty old Hannah Klein's face in it -- my boy found himself a nice Jewish girl," the woman was laughing out loud.

Vanessa hazarded a nervous chuckle, "does it matter if I converted?"

"Does it matter that Ruth in the Bible converted? Of course not! That still doesn't answer my original question, though. How do you feel about our Gil?"

Vanessa was still nervous, but the shaking had gone out of her hands. She at least had something in common with the voice on the other end. She could get through this. She took a deep breath and poured the water into the back of the coffee pot, "I love him."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I'm sure that I've never felt like this about anyone else, ever. And I've been kicking around this dirt ball for forty years now. What are you leading up to?" Vanessa felt her conviction rising in her voice.

Apparently Ruth heard it, too. The woman sighed, a sound that held an incredible amount of sadness. "I can already tell he thinks a great deal of you. He doesn't usually invite people into his space," she started. "How much have the two of you talked about his past relationships?"

Wanting to skirt the issue a little, Vanessa kept her answer vague, "some. Enough to understand one another."

"Then he told you about Helen?"

"Yes. Why?" Vanessa felt her eyes narrowing as she tried to chase the other woman's train of thought to get an idea where the conversation was going.

"And you wouldn't leave him? Not if he acted like a complete horse's ass? No matter what he did before he met you?" The other woman's voice was hard to hear suddenly.

"I can't think of any reason that I would leave him, no. You want the truth, there isn't much I wouldn't do for him. What's this about?"

"The _farshtunkener shiksa_ lied. That's why." Words felt like rocks even over the many miles that separated them.

Vanessa felt heat rising in her gut again, she recognized it as her normal protective instinct, only amplified. "I think you'd better be a little more clear," she said, her voice soft yet hard at the same time.

"Oy. She had his child. He's twenty-three. He wants to meet his father."

Vanessa wandered over to a chair at the table and plopped down in it. "You've got to be shitting me." Was all she could manage to say.

"I wish I was," Ruth started, "and then again, I don't. It's broken Eleanor's heart that she missed out on her only grandchild -- and them living in the same town the whole time. His name is Aaron. Funny...that's what Eleanor wanted to call Gil."

Vanessa struggled to wrap her head around the news. Aaron. Twenty-three. Lying _slut_. The words rattled around in her head, but couldn't find their way to her mouth. "He...Aaron...wants to meet..." she was at a loss.

"He wants to drive out with us in a month. That's why Gil shouldn't worry about me having to drive all that way. Like he should worry anyway, but there will be a second person to drive," Ruth's tone changed, back to reality, no longer wistful. "Eleanor is an incredibly strong woman. I can't begin to tell you how strong she is. But she can't tell him this. Not over the phone, when she can't see his face. And we can't just show up on the doorstep..."

Vanessa deduced the rest of the train of thought. "So you want me to tell him. That's what this has been all about."

"Its more than we should ask, but we don't have a choice," each word felt like a weight being hung around Vanessa's neck.

"Yeah," she breathed, laying her head in her hands, phone cradled between her ear and her shoulder, "yeah, I'll do it."

The first thing Vanessa did after the phone call was dial another number. The lab. She spoke with the day receptionist and told her to relay a message to Ecklie: Gil Grissom was taking a personal day. No argument. No questions.

Then she called Catharine to give her the heads up that there was a family issue and that he wouldn't be in that night.

Then she called one of the only volunteers she had at the community center and told her she needed someone to either manage the late shift or lock up early, because she had a personal problem that wouldn't wait. Diana told her that she'd work late, and take her husband with her in case there were problems.

Vanessa huffed out a huge sigh as she hung up the phone and set it down on the table. She wasn't even paying attention to her surroundings, and was surprised when a cup of coffee magically landed on the table in front of her. She looked up and saw Gil smiling at her, and it made her heart ache, knowing what she had to tell him. "Your shoulder that bad?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"I just heard you call out. If its that bad, you should have it checked," he told her. He must have been in the shower. His hair was wet, and he smelled incredible.

"No. I called you out, too."

He smiled at her, "big plans?"

Her laugh was devoid of humor. "I wish. You should get yourself a cup of coffee and sit," she told him.

"This looks serious. Mom and Ruth didn't try to run you off, did they?"

"Nothing like that. In fact Ruth is overjoyed that you found yourself a 'nice Jewish girl.' She was practically crowing," Vanessa laughed lightly.

He sat next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "What's going on, then?"

Her mind kept screaming, _I can't tell him this! Why should I have to be the one to fix this? Someone should drag that manipulating bitch up here by her hair and make her explain it_, but somehow she found her voice. "You shouldn't worry about Ruth driving by herself."

"Why?" the word was drawn out.

"Because they'll have a second driver."

"What? Mom finally find herself a man?" he joked.

Vanessa just looked up at him, helplessly. "No," she took a huge lung full of air to steady her nerves, squared her shoulders and looked directly into his guileless blue eyes. "I hate having to tell you this. Anyone who cares about you would hate to have to tell you this," she started, watching the frown descending over his features. "Helen lied to you." She spat it out in a rush.

His head tilted off to the side and he looked at her like she was nuts. Completely nuts. "She lied about a lot of things. Which one are we discussing in particular and why?"

Vanessa closed her eyes tight and forced her voice through an aching chest, "about the baby." It was almost a whisper.

Time stopped in the kitchen of Gil Grissom's town house. Vanessa's heart ached for him as she watched the confusion in his eyes. He looked like he'd been sucker punched, and in a way, she supposed, he had. Her hands went to his shoulders, wondering if she should allow him some space, or draw him into her arms.

"His name is Aaron," she told him quietly. "He's twenty-three. He wants to meet you. He wants to drive out with your Mom and Ruth in a month. They didn't want you to be alone when you found out, or to have to deal with it when he was already on your doorstep. So...I guess that's where I came in."

She slid her chair closer to his as he sat in stunned silence, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him to lean on her. It seemed to take hours for him to form one word. "Why?"

She was relieved that he was talking, even if it was one word at a time. "Why what?" she asked, holding him closer, his head resting on her shoulder.

"Why would she do that?"

"I wish I had the answer to that."

When she finally looked up at the clock they'd been sitting there for about two hours, him staring blankly into space, her trying to comfort him. The phone rang again and she reached forward to pick it up.

"Who the hell do you think you are, calling in for him?" It was Ecklie.

She rolled her eyes. This was the last thing she needed. "Get over it, Conrad," she snipped. Her voice rattled Gil out of his stupor and he sat up.

"I want an answer, and I want it now. What's his excuse? Where is he?" the balding administrator sputtered.

"Its good to want things, Conrad, it builds character," she said pleasantly before she hung up on him. It wasn't as satisfying to hang up on someone with a cordless phone. You couldn't make as much noise slamming the receiver down in its cradle. Determined to vent, she glared at the phone, "anyone else got an opinion here?" she snapped.

Too late, she realized she was talking to an inanimate object. She looked over at Gil, feeling a little ridiculous, and every ounce of it showing on her face. All she saw at first was his shoulders shaking. _Oh, dear God,_ she thought desperately, assuming he'd broken down over the whole issue. When he looked at her, though, she was thrown for a loop. He was smiling. He was laughing. She couldn't resolve his reaction with the news she'd had to give him. She couldn't even find words, her mouth just hung open as she stared at him.

"You're gonna be a pain in his ass till the day he either retires or dies, aren't you?" he asked her between paroxysms.

Her eyes stayed wide as she regarded him. Then she started laughing with him. "Yeah," she said bluntly, "I am. What of it?" Her temper took hold through her laughter. "He's one of the few people on earth I have an active problem with. And now I can add another to the list, the sleazy little bitch."

"Forget her. God knows I've done my best to," he told her quietly, settling an arm around her shoulders, her head finding the crook of his own shoulder to rest on.

"Yeah, look how far you got with that," she said with heavy sarcasm. "I'm telling you, if I ever find out which rock she's hiding under, I will dig her out and..." she didn't finish the thought. She didn't want to expose him to the obscenity and violence that was roaring through her mind.

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "I guess I'm due for some vacation time," he said. "And if Ecklie doesn't approve it, I'll just send you in to shut him down," he couldn't help laughing a little. "Hey," he said, his voice softening again as his fingers tipped her chin so that she was looking in his eyes, "I can't figure out why she did _anything _ she did, least of all this. I don't think I ever will. She's probably painted me to be the most neglectful dead-beat on the planet by now, but apparently he wants to find out for himself. Maybe its for the best. I'm not exactly 'daddy' material..." he sighed. "But I think its best to hold off on reacting until they get here," his eyes were intent on hers.

"I don't understand how you can be so calm about it when I'm ready to tear her head off," when she spoke there was nothing gentle in her voice.

"I don't know how else to respond, I guess because I don't feel like I have all the information," he shrugged, jostling her head a little. She looked at the phone, thoughts forming in her head. She wanted to get to the bottom of things, as was her nature. Almost idly she picked it up, zipping through the memory until she stumbled across one labeled 'Mom.' She punched the button and held the receiver up to her ear.

All the intimidation was gone by the third ring. It was replaced with a feeling of protective anger. "Hello?" it was Ruth. For a moment, Vanessa thanked her lucky stars, because she had no clue how a phone for the deaf worked and that nagged at her somehow.

"Hi, this is Vanessa again."

"Oh, dear," Ruth replied, "it didn't go well?"

"Actually, he's handling it better than I am." Gil was looking at her with something resembling shock on his features. A little over two hours ago, she'd looked at the same phone, with the same person on the other end, like he'd tried to hand her a viper. Now she was the one initiating communication. Vanessa got up and took her coffee to the living room, staring out the window. Gil followed her, wondering what she was doing.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty pissed. So what has he been told about his father?" Vanessa left tact behind. If she and Gil felt as strongly as she hoped they did about each other, this was family, and if that was the case, they were going to find out about her temper eventually. Might as well be now. "I like to know what I'm getting into."

"I'm really sorry I asked you to tell him," Ruth started.

"No. I'm not pissed at you. I'm pissed at the little bitch. And I want to know what kind of impression she's given Aaron about Gil."

"Oy. We've had to set quite a few things straight, already. That's why he wants to drive out to meet him. She told him he ditched her for another girl in Minneapolis when he found out she was pregnant. That Gil didn't want him." Ruth explained.

"I see," Vanessa said, pursing her lips into a thin, angry line. "What else."

"He didn't have the kind of childhood I would have wished for a grandchild of mine," Ruth's voice echoed with a helpless sadness that twisted Vanessa's gut.

"Was it just a new 'uncle' every week or was there abuse to go with it?" Vanessa felt she had a pretty good idea of Helen's personality, and waded directly into the middle of the issue.

"Both," the other woman replied, her voice shaking.

Vanessa's stomach turned over. She wanted desperately to lash out at someone. She was gripping the phone so hard that her knuckles had turned white, and she barely realized it when Gil reached over to pull it away from her grasp. Desperation tinged the four words he spoke: "how is his hearing?"

The look of relief that passed over his face told Vanessa all she needed to know with regard to that question. She hadn't even recognized the tension that one question created until she felt her stomach unknot. "How soon can you get here?" was his next question.

She recognized that he'd achieved some level of equilibrium where the new information was concerned, and as usual, he was off and running, finding answers, arranging other things so that there would be more answers to follow.

"Two weeks. Sounds fine."

Vanessa's jaw dropped for what felt like the hundredth time that day. "What the hell are you thinking?" she mouthed as she rolled her eyes and looked around the townhouse, shaking her head. The projects she'd need to accomplish in the next two weeks were piling up in her mind.

She took the phone back from him. "Hey. Is there anything else we should be ready to deal with when we meet Aaron? I like to know what the battlefield looks like before I step onto it."

"I really can't say. There's so much I know he hasn't told us. And the rest...well, he's a grown man. Its up to him to talk about it." The voice was different this time, and she realized she was talking to his mother.

Rather than back pedal, she forged ahead. "So what can you tell me about the rotten _shiksa_?" she asked, making sure to speak clearly in case that was a factor.

"What do you mean?" her voice had the same quality as Gil's -- an ability to cut through everything else, whether that was a room filled with white noise or the mad cluster of questions that swarmed her mind.

"Address. Phone number. Place of employment. I'm going to run a back ground check on her."

The other end was silent for a long time. Vanessa held her peace, realizing that this moment might seem insignificant, but that it was critical in the opinion his mother would form of her.

Finally, she spoke, "I can email anything relevant to Gil. If you have the resources, I encourage you to use them. It might shed some much needed light on things."

"Thank you," Vanessa said, letting some of the anger fade from her voice. She handed the phone back to him and went out to the patio. On her way through, she snagged a pen, a battered legal pad, and her pack of cigarettes. She felt like she was going to be out there a while -- the equivalent of Sherlock Holmes' 'three pipe problem.'

**Chapter Sixteen: Family**

One day left to 'zero hour,' as Vanessa had come to think of it, found her on her hands and knees in the living room with two buckets and a scrub brush. One bucket was full of water tinged with strong smelling cleaner. The other, clean rinse water. Her knees hurt, her shoulders were in hell, she was sweating like a pig, and she was only half way done. She'd spent the morning working on the flower beds, dusting, turning the guest room upside down: flipping the mattress, changing the sheets, moving her own stuff to the master bedroom, fluffing pillows...the list seemed endless. She still had the kitchen to scrub top to bottom when she was done with the concrete floors in the living room.

Gil was reclining on the couch, watching the sway of her hips as she worked the brush around in energetic circles, an appreciative smile on his face. She looked back at him, blowing an escaped strand of hair out of her face. "What?" she barked.

He got up and walked over to her, leaning down to run his hand up and down her back, straying over her backside. The look in his blue eyes was positively transparently lascivious -- a rare enough thing for him. And yet it irritated her. Intensely.

"How can you even be thinking like that right now?" she snapped. "This place has got to be perfect by tomorrow. I have a community center to run all night, and during the day I've been scrubbing and gardening and laundering...and you...who are on vacation, I might remind you, are sitting on the couch watching. I might be inclined to indulge you if you'd help me with this stuff."

He held up both hands in mock defense. "Didn't mean to stir up the dragon," he said, laughing.

"Do you think I enjoy scrubbing floors? You are so on back rub duty tonight, buster."

"How about back rub duty now and scrubbing floors later?" he asked pointedly looking down the hall toward the bedroom.

"How about you get out there in the kitchen and scrub or you get to sleep on the couch?" she grumped.

"Whatever it takes," he told her, saluting her smartly and wandering in that direction.

She heaved a sigh and went back to scrubbing, sweating buckets as the late evening sunlight filtered in through the front room windows. Five more feet to go, and she'd only been at it an hour. God, to be able to sit down and just relax a little bit...

Her momentary reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Shit. What could that be?" she grumbled, going back to her scrubbing as Gil wandered toward the door.

"You track on my clean floor and its curtains for you!" she called to him.

"I guess that would mean I'd have to learn how to sew?" he shot back, laughing at her.

"And he thinks _my_ sense of humor never quits," she mumbled as he opened the door.

The first words she heard made her head drop between her shoulders in defeat. "You're early!"

"Yes, well it did not take as long as we thought it would with two drivers," an accented voice behind her explained, its volume increasing as it entered the living room, growing closer. She couldn't even bring herself to turn around and look at them. Not even sneak a glance. She wanted to pick up her stuff and hide in the bedroom the entire time they were supposed to stay there. She didn't want them to meet her looking (and probably smelling) like some sort of work horse.

Panic and adrenaline flooded her senses. She felt like hyperventilating. She wanted a cigarette. She wanted to be alone. She wanted a shower. Most of all, she'd like to find a magic rewind button so that she could back this whole scene up until she could get a shower and make herself presentable. None of that was going to happen, she realized. The first thing they were going to see of her was her butt, pointed toward the door. Her butt, in a pair of ratty, patched up jeans. A tee shirt that she'd painted many a room in. Hair pulled back in a messy bun.

"Where is..." Ruth started. "Oh! I see her! Stop hiding, come and let us see you!"

Slowly she got up, cringing and digging deep in herself for some scrap of dignity. She heard the voice of a fellow performer in the back of her head, a good friend from what seemed like a lifetime ago: "Doesn't matter what you look like. Carry yourself like you own the place and no one will even notice." She hung on that now. She straightened her back and was stunned at the amount of noise her joints made to protest her change in position.

Despite every fiber of her body screaming at her to _run_, she approached the two women, making sure to look his mother in the eye in particular. She was not overly tall, but intimidating in a Lauren Bacall way none the less. The sort of frosty refined beauty that never ages. Intelligent blue eyes (she could see where Gil got them). Putting her hand forward, she proceeded to exchange handshakes with them. Ruth took to her instantly, chattering a mile a minute about Hannah Klein's son, who was still living at home after marrying (and divorcing) a Baptist girl (not that she had anything against Baptists, or anyone else, she explained. It had been the Baptist girl's parents who'd insisted that their religious differences were a problem, leading to the demise of their marriage). Eleanor, on the other hand, appraised her coolly, from a distance. Almost imperceptibly, she looked at her son and nodded approval. Vanessa couldn't help letting an audible sigh of relief escape her. She'd crossed the first hurdle. Now she had to figure out what they were going to do for dinner. She'd planned on ordering pizza since she was going to be working all night getting the house ready for guests.

Then Aaron walked through the door, carrying the ladies' luggage like a gentleman. Vanessa took one look at him and felt like the rug had been yanked out from under her. She was looking into Gil's face. A perfect copy. It was like a time warp. Ruth shoved an elbow under her ribs, forcing her to take a breath and collect her wits.

Now that she looked closer, she noticed subtle differences. Eyes a slightly different shape. Jaw a little more square. Taller, but not by much. She made her appraisal quickly, and with a jolt of sympathy -- _he isn't an exhibit at the zoo for crying out loud_, she thought -- broke the silence that had fallen over the group; Gil looking at his son for the first time, the two women wondering how they were going to react to each other.

Vanessa simply strode up to him. "Let me take those," she offered, taking the bags over her own shoulders. "Is there more in the car?" she asked, offering a smile.

"Uh...yeah. Just a couple. I'll get them and be right back," the voice was more baritone than Gil's, but that quiet, almost shy quality was still there.

"Good. Just come on in when you get back with them. I'm going to put on a fresh pot of coffee, and there are a couple bottles of wine depending on what we decide to do for dinner," she offered.

The rest of them began to act at once. Gil went to the kitchen to start coffee and root through cupboards to see what could be done for dinner. Vanessa trundled luggage to the guest room. Ruth and Eleanor followed Gil into the kitchen, presumably to pester him about how he felt about the whole thing. Vanessa was back on her knees as soon as she got to the living room. Five more feet, and she wasn't going to quit before she had a living room floor they could eat off of.

She saw him enter the living room out of the corner of her eye. "Go ahead and set those by the door. We'll figure it out when we get there. I'll be done with this in a second. Have a seat. Bathroom's down the hall. Everyone else is in the kitchen, no doubt gossiping about us," she threw him another smile, which he returned in that same 'almost' way his father had.

All things considered, she was probably the only one in the group with the experience to really engage the young man, if his past was as troubled as Ruth's commentary and Helen's background check indicated. She finished rinsing her floor, threw the rag and brush into the bucket and stood up, bracing her hands on the small of her back as she stretched. She calculated her next move carefully; instead of occupying the couch next to him, she flopped down in the chair next to the couch, and brushed her hair out of her eyes again. "How was the trip?" she started idly.

"The AC went out about a hundred miles back," he started. "Other than that it wasn't bad."

"Maybe I can look at that later. Might just need to recharge the freon," she mentioned. "Ruth told me you're looking at going back to school. Any particular field?" She kept her tone light, almost idle. As if she were talking about the weather.

He shrugged. "I'm interested in plants. Or maybe sociology."

"That's cool. I'm working with the soc department at UNLV right now, developing new course programs for them that will be more hands on than what they've been offering. I can get you in there if you want to take a look around. Most of the professors aren't bad. It would be cool to see how you can combine those two fields."

"That might be okay," he was keeping his answers short and non-committal, letting nothing of himself out. She wasn't sure if that was a product of nature or nurture. Possibly...probably both.

"How's that coffee coming?" she leaned back in the chair and called in the general direction of the kitchen. She looked at the young man with a grin, "you want anything?"

"Coffee's fine."

"How do you like it? I'm thinking its time I broke up that bullshit session," she arched her eyebrows in the direction of the kitchen again.

"Black is fine."

"Two black coffees, coming right up," she chirped, getting up and heading toward the kitchen.

Facing the other three, she planted her hands on her hips, looking at the full coffee pot. She dropped her voice. "He always this reticent, or is he just shy?"

"A bit of both. It was weeks before he'd string more than five words together, it seemed like, when he first started coming around. I was just explaining to Gil that he was going through the neighborhood offering to do yard work. Something about a car he wanted..." Ruth trailed off.

"Well this cloistered gab session is starting to make things a little bit awkward," she reprimanded the whole bunch of them. "Its not like we don't know you're out here gossiping about us," she told them, smiling to soften the blunt edge of her comment.

Gil flat out blushed, Eleanor glanced at her feet before meeting Vanessa's eyes again, and Ruth broke into a tirade, "oy vay! Where are my manners? Of course. Do you have a tray so that we can bring drinks out for everyone?" the woman immediately started bustling around the kitchen, collecting coffee mugs, a hot pad to set the pot on, and assorted coffee-associated condiments such as sugar and half and half.

She looked at Eleanor, signing It's a pleasure to meet you. The woman's eyes lit up, but her expression was questioning.

Gil is a good teacher Vanessa signed simply. Then she spoke, when her hands failed her. "I may not be the quickest student, but he does the best he can."

Vanessa was rewarded for her efforts with a laugh and a soft touch on the shoulder before they all entered the living room en masse.

"Do we really need introductions?" again, it was Vanessa that broke the silence that descended on the group, pouring a cup of coffee and handing it to Aaron, then pouring one for herself. Gil immediately translated for his mother, who just shrugged.

Aaron smiled at the awkwardness that seemed to have seized everyone. "I think I can figure it out," he looked at Vanessa, "I'm guessing you aren't Gil...Dad..." his expression was one of consternation as he looked at the father he'd never met, "I don't know what to call you."

Gil took a deep breath and sat down next to Aaron on the couch. "I can't expect you to think of me as your Dad. I wasn't there to be one for you," he said in a voice heavily tinged with regret.

Ruth came to his defense, "that wasn't your fault." She stopped herself with an effort before a comment became a tirade. Whatever had gone on in his childhood, Helen was still Aaron's mother, and they had done their best to keep that in mind.

Aaron was quiet for a moment, "I'm finding out that it wasn't," he confirmed. "Let's not pretend that life with Helen was idyllic."

Gil was shocked to hear him refer to her by her first name, instead of mom, or mother, or something of the sort. Vanessa simply found the quirk to be a very telling indication of Aaron's relationship with his mother. Aaron continued, "it wasn't. It was anything but. It would have been nice to have someone reasonably stable around when I was growing up. I didn't, though. If I had, I might never have started doing yard work, never would have met Eleanor and Ruth, and never would have found out the truth about things."

"Wise words for a young man," Vanessa commented under her breath. Eleanor signed something to her son and left the room, leaving Gil looking a little pained. Vanessa looked at him, the question clear in her eyes. "Does translation only work one way?" she asked.

"No," he groaned, rubbing his eyes.

"Then what was that?"

Gil was quiet, but Ruth spoke up. "She brought some old photo albums. She thought it might be a good way to break the ice around here." Ruth looked pleased with herself, obviously relishing the potential to show off pictures of the little boy she'd helped raise.

"Oooh! Do I sense embarrassing pictures? Like bathtub pictures? Things like that?" Vanessa couldn't help laughing at his discomfort.

"Somewhere there is a box of pictures of you and I'm gonna find it," he growled back at her.

"Yeah, right. You aren't that good," she smirked.

"I'm gonna find the most embarrassing one of them all and have a print shop blow it up to poster size and keep it in my office," Gil returned her teasing.

Vanessa snorted laughter at him. "Puh-lease. You think I keep that kind of thing on me?"

"I _do_ find things for a living. Evidence. Criminals. People who have gone to great pains to hide things."

"And I bet right up until the day you left home to go to college, you had to ask your Mom daily where something was. Socks, underwear, binders, books -- Heaven forbid, bugs." She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling at this last thought.

Eleanor walked into the room in the middle of the exchange, a thick, well work album under her arm. She was smiling -- partly with nostalgia, partly at her son's discomfort. She set the book down on the coffee table and signed something else at Gil, nodding impatiently at him.

"She says she's always wanted to do this," he groaned, leaning back into the couch as Vanessa sat forward in her chair, anticipation in her eyes.

Eleanor reached over and gave him a light smack on the leg, "behave," she admonished aloud. Vanessa watched the interaction between the two, and then let her gaze rest on Gil, a slow, fond, smile falling over her face. She gave in to her whim, got up from her chair, and sat on the arm of the couch next to him, letting her hands run affectionately over his shoulders. His head fell to the back of the couch and she grabbed the opportunity to steal a quick kiss.

She was surprised to feel a light smack on her arm, and looked over to see Eleanor trying not to laugh at her. "You, too." Vanessa ducked her head between her shoulders in mock apology.

Gil managed a laugh and commented to Vanessa, "I told you I never got away with anything."

They spent the better part of an hour looking through photographs of Gil from birth to middle school, with him cringing the entire time. She had saved every news paper article written about him and every scholarly paper he'd ever published...all in an album of their own, which they could go through some other night. She'd even saved some of his research papers from college.

"I'm really sorry, but I have got to grab a shower. If anyone has any ideas for dinner, I'll be happy to oblige when I get out." Vanessa told them, standing up, albeit reluctantly. She'd found herself completely enchanted with the contents of the photo albums.

She was almost finished in the bathroom, standing before the mirror combing out her hair, when Gil walked in, completely unexpected, making her jump.

"That almost makes up for the way you tormented me out there," he told her, his eyes moving from her toes to the top of her head.

"What do you mean?" she asked, feigning irritation, when in fact, his proximity and her lack of clothing was putting thoughts into her head that could postpone dinner indefinitely.

He stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, bending down to kiss her neck. "You did promise that after the cleaning was done..." he hinted at their earlier conversation.

"That was before everyone showed up early," she reminded him, leaning back into him anyway.

"I just wanted to tell you that we went ahead and ordered pizza anyway. I told them you've been cleaning like a fiend for the last week, and they took pity on you."

She turned in his arms to face him, "you shouldn't have done that," she scolded. "How are they going to feel, having to make do with delivered pizza their first night here? They've probably been eating restaurant food for a week on the way out here."

"Then one more night won't matter," he said softly, smiling at her, burying his head in her shoulder and holding her close.

There were three knocks at the door, and she felt his lips start to move against her skin. She moved so she could see him, and was surprised to see that he was counting.

"What are you doing?" she asked, puzzled.

He held up a finger, indicating that she wait for a response, and when she moved to ask again, he leaned over and kissed her.

After what felt like an eternity to her curiosity, he looked at her and said, "for every knock, you get a ten-count."

"Huh?"

"It was Mom's way of respecting my privacy when I was growing up. Now that she's here, I guess old habits are kicking in."

"Well, that's ingenuity," she complimented. Sure enough, as soon as the words left her mouth, she heard the door open.

"See? Thirty seconds exactly," he commented, heading for the bedroom.

She heard his mother speaking to him, "I thought we should help pay for dinner tonight."

"No, that's all right, really. We were planning on it already," he replied.

Vanessa threw a towel around herself hastily and walked into the bedroom as well, not thinking. Eleanor took her son's half naked girlfriend in stride, without so much as a batted eye. "I couldn't let you do that," the younger woman said with a shake of her head. "I can't believe he ordered out -- I should fix you all a real dinner tonight."

Eleanor looked Vanessa up and down and smiled sympathetically, then shook her head. Her hands flashed at Gil, who in turn translated: "you must be exhausted after the last week. Why don't you get dressed since it should be here soon."

Vanessa looked down at herself and once again caught herself blushing. "I'm so sorry!" she blurted, dodging back to the safety of the bathroom, where she just leaned against the wall and smacked herself in the forehead.

Gil walked in again a second later, laughing quietly. "Very funny," she grumped.

"I thought it was," he told her. "Do you think a half naked woman is going to turn her head after half the stories you heard about me today?"

"When she's trying to decide whether that half naked woman is fit for her son or not it might!" she spouted. "How can I be such an idiot?"

"You're forty years old. You really care what someone else thinks about your relationships?"

"When its your Mom, I do! Besides, you were awfully touchy about the people at the lab finding out for a while," she reminded him with narrowed eyes.

He pulled her into a hug, "its okay," his voice was muffled by her wet hair.

"No, its not!" she almost wailed, shaking her head.

"Look at me," he said, stepping back and tilting her head up so he could look at her. "It is, too. Everything is going to be fine. She's okay with you or you would have heard about it by now. She might not be sure if you're daughter-in-law material or not, but you're alright so far. Now stop working yourself up over the little things and help me figure out how I'm going to make up for twenty-three years."

She saw pain cloud his eyes at the last statement. She wanted nothing more than to make everything better, but knew that wasn't possible. "You can't do that, Gil," she told him. Before he could reply, she kept going, "you have to start where you're at and earn his respect. That may seem like twenty-three years too late right now, but he's got a good grip on things. He may never have found you if Helen hadn't been such a screw up as a parent. That's what forced him to distance himself from her and try to make his own way."

"Why did I believe her? I can't figure that out. Of all the times for me to just go along with what she told me..."

"Because she hurt you. And she meant to do it. You had to distance yourself, just like Aaron has," Vanessa told him, leaning up to kiss him. "Don't try to be anything other than what you are. He'll figure out how the cards are laid out."

"I don't know," he said, his voice impossibly soft. "Drug charges. DV calls. I might not have been perfect, but I could have spared him that, at least."

"There's nothing you can do to change that," Vanessa told him, her voice strong, hoping that it would give some of its strength to him. "Focus on now. You have a chance to spend time with him and your family. I'm here, and I love you, no matter what happens. Now...I need to get dressed so we can grab dinner, then I need to figure out if I need to go in for part of a shift tonight."

She stepped away from him, walking toward the dresser. It was still a little odd to her that he'd cleared out a couple drawers for her to use. Not that she didn't appreciate it. It was just strange...knowing him and how he'd been about his space prior to her occupancy. Shrugging it off, she tugged on a pair of jeans and a brown tank top.

He was still staring at her from the bathroom door. "What? You didn't think I was just going to sit back and allow you to wallow in your own bullshit, did you?" she asked as she frowned at her glasses and used the edge of her shirt to clean them off.

He stepped over to her, catching her in another hug. "If I let you win this one, you owe me a roller coaster ride."

"I don't know about those odds," she said hesitantly. "Can we compromise if I go on something a little more tame? Like a Ferris wheel? Besides, you already know I'm right. I can tell by your voice. You're just trying to get what you want out of it."

"I still can't get away with anything," he grumbled through a smile as he led her back into the living room.

"No. You can't."

It was early. Nine-in-the-morning-early. To Vanessa, it was the butt-crack of dawn. She groaned and poured herself a cup of coffee and settled herself in at the kitchen table to go over her email while Aaron was in the shower. The director of the sociology department only kept morning hours.

She felt absolutely disgusting this time of day. Nauseous. Early morning sunlight stabbing the back of her eyeballs now that she had left the light-proof sanctuary of the bedroom. It was chilly; the floor was cold under her feet. The only thing that helped was coffee. Once she got something done -- started doing instead of worrying about doing -- the feeling would fade. Sometimes the weight of everything she had to do in the course of a day weighed on her oppressively, making it hard to move. She felt like she was thinking through mud.

She heard the bathroom door open and put on her brave face. Aaron, and the rest of Gil's immediate family, had been there for a week, and the young man had proved to be an impeccable guest. With the hours she sometimes kept, she would have forgotten he was there if he didn't wind up sleeping on the couch half the time (even though they had made up a bed in the office for him). He had every ounce of his father's intelligence and analytical ability. He was polite, considerate, always offering to help with household chores. In fact, he had helped Vanessa plan a container garden for the patio. Vanessa found herself very impressed -- evidence of resilience in the face of negative environment, something that had been studied in the abstract ad nauseum.

He stepped into the kitchen, dressed sharp in a button down shirt and a pair of black jeans. "Ready?" she asked him with a smile. She even felt like it was almost genuine.

"Whenever," he replied, grabbing a notebook and heading out the door with her.

Once in her car, she snagged a cigarette and lit it with a hint of desperation. Hopefully nicotine would dispel the fatigue that was buzzing in her head. Aaron reached over to the radio and turned it on, flipping through the CDs on the visor and throwing in Offspring.

Vanessa turned to him with a grin and turned up the volume as they left the neighborhood. "How'd ya know what I needed?" she laughed.

"I'm good that way," he said in a teasingly smug tone.

"So you noticed I tend to wake up pissed off," she noted, with a trace of sheepishness.

"I've heard. You swear a lot. Figured something angry sounding might take the edge off."

"If you end up in sociology," she started, always emphasizing that at this point in his academic endeavors, the world was wide open, "you will certainly be one of the best. You're very observant," she complimented him.

He shrugged non-commit ally. "Kinda had to be growing up with Helen. Anticipating her moods, her boyfriends' moods, depending on what they were on. Its a survival thing."

He had been slowly opening up to her. He'd spent evenings at the community center with her, and she made a point to never push for information. He'd tell her in his own time. Much like Gil -- and she had a hunch that he had a whole trunk full of experiences that he hadn't unloaded for her.

She had her own trunk like that. It wasn't that she didn't trust him enough to tell him, she was simply reluctant to allow herself to be exposed like that -- at least not quite yet. He didn't know that she'd been hit with tear gas while participating in protests, or that the reason her shoulder ached when the weather changed was because she'd been hit with a nightstick while defending another demonstrator. He didn't know about her childhood. About the time she spent volunteering with the Red Cross, going into disaster areas, and how that had affected her. She hadn't really explained all the elements that drove her to be as committed to the work she did as she was. He didn't know about the myriad neuroses that years spent performing had instilled in her; for instance, the fellow dancer who had committed suicide, and how she blamed herself for it. How a piece of her had wanted to curl up and die each time she was less than perfect. Dozens of memories and insecurities, more than she could count, roiled in her almost constantly, kept under tight control, sometimes she didn't even know how she managed them. To know her, inside and out like that, she felt was a burden. She didn't feel the need to burden anyone she cared for unnecessarily.

"Do I really swear a lot?" she asked.

"Like a trucker with a stubbed toe."

"Funny. Gil tells me the same thing. I never remember it..." she felt a little confused, being told about this Mr. Hyde side of herself that she woke up with.

He just shrugged again, turning to look at the scenery zipping past the window, and they quietly listened to electric guitars roaring into out of the speakers until she pulled into a staff parking space. "Man, do you know how many times I slogged to class in the rain and wanted to key the cars in these spaces?" she laughed as they got out. He just looked at her and broke out in a grin. "I have arrived!" she said, doing a little jig in the parking lot.

This time, he laughed openly at her. "C'mon, Riverdance, we're gonna be late if you keep fooling around," he teased her.

"Well, you won't let me have any fun," she scolded back, leading the way to the social science wing of the main building.

"Nope," he replied, following her up the stairs. "You sure I look okay?" he asked, casting her an open look that was a rarity. He looked half his age when he looked at her like that, making her want to go all 'big sis' on him, give him a noogy, and tell him everything would be okay.

Instead, she teased him -- an equally 'big sis' response. "No. That shirt is all wrong on you. But its too late now."

He rolled his eyes, dodging past her and racing her up the rest of the stairs.

"Hey," she huffed, catching him up. "You look fine," she reassured him. "And would ya look at this. We're here and we're five minutes early," she said, stepping through the door into a suite of small offices and motioning for Aaron to take a chair in front of the secretary's desk. She went to the coffee pot and grabbed a Styrofoam cup.

"Vanessa, you have a pile of messages here," the secretary held them out to her.

"Sorry 'bout that. If they'd set me up with a box already, you could at least get them off your desk. How'd the staff meeting go?" she smiled, knowing that Olivia would have the best news. And she was accurate, which was never to be underestimated.

"Well, we have a new department head," she said.

"Huh!" Vanessa's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Since when?"

"Since the staff meeting," Olivia told her with a conspiratorial look. "His focus is criminology. Used to work forensics."

Vanessa frowned, "What happened to Hammond?" she inquired after the former head of the department. She hadn't been overly fond of the man, but she could work around him if she had to. He was very caught up in his own title -- to the point of being unobservant at (for Vanessa) all the right times.

"Resigned. Kinda. I don't think it was willing, though. Whatever it is, the school buried it quickly. He was here on Friday, and when I got here Monday, his office was empty and there was a new nametag on the door," Olivia shrugged. Vanessa knew that the secretary would find out what happened eventually. She could run the whole school with her hands tied behind her back. Instead she sat at the center of the social science division.

Vanessa made an interested noise in the back of her throat as she sipped her coffee and flipped through her messages. Most had sent her emails, and those she crumpled and threw in the wastebasket.

"Who's this?" Olivia wanted the gossip.

"New blood," Vanessa told her, not looking up.

"Anyone we shouldn't have talked in front of?" It was rare that anyone or anything escaped Olivia's notice, but Aaron had a way of melting into the back ground when he didn't want to be noticed. If Vanessa didn't know better she would wonder if it was some kind of secret super hero power or something.

"Naw. He'd hear all about it from me anyway," she found her manners and looked up, introducing Aaron to the secretary formally. "This is Gil's son."

Olivia looked a bit surprised, but kept it to herself as she shook the young man's hand. "He isn't a sure bet yet, so you guys need to stay on your toes and impress him," Vanessa told her with a smile. "After all, UNLV isn't the only game in town."

"What the hell," Vanessa grumped, looking at the clock. "We get here early, and this clown is five minutes late," she turned to Olivia. "So far, I'm not impressed. Its not like he's had enough time in the day to get backed up with stuff." She walked quickly to the door at the end of the room and rapped sharply. She studied the bare wood in front of her, seemingly out of place with the other doors that had been decorated with notices from conferences, newspaper clippings and student art. It gave her the creeps. The name plate had been taken down.

Frustrated, she walked back to the waiting area and sat down, tapping her foot. "What's this fool's name?" she asked.

"Gerard something or other," Olivia squinted, trying to pull the rest of the name from her memory.

A voice from the doorway interrupted her train of thought. "Is there something I can do for you?" it was baritone, polished, and somehow familiar. Vanessa was instantly aware of the lack of accent. She turned to face the new head of the sociology department. She recognized him, but, Vanessa thanked God, he didn't recognize her. At least, she didn't think so.

"Yes. I have a prospective student here who was supposed to meet with you at ten," she replied with a pointed look at the clock on the wall.

Aaron had again pulled his disappearing act, making himself as unnoticeable as possible, watching the exchange carefully. "My apologies," he began, extending his hand. "Philip Gerard. I'm still getting settled." His hand was cold.

Vanessa heard the name and barely repressed her anger. _One and the same,_ she thought, thinking back to her younger days and the file she'd read as part of her research for the union proposal. He was good. He was going to figure this whole thing out in no time flat. She positioned herself in the doorway so that he was facing the secretary's desk rather than the seating area. She wanted to set things off on her own footing. Aaron noticed her maneuver nodded his acknowledgement. He hadn't missed the stiffening of her posture at the introduction.

"Vanessa Goldman." she introduced herself simply.

Gerard noticed her lack of warmth, but didn't react. "You're assisting the department with some new programs," he said, looking at the files in his hand. "I was going to call you later."

"Yes. I was surprised to hear that Hammond left so suddenly. It must be difficult to jump in as head of a department mid term like this," she replied diplomatic.

"He had an unavoidable commitment out of state, unfortunately. Luckily for me, he left behind extensive and accurate records and notes. Which is why I was going to look you up. Its almost time to plan for the fall term."

"I would be happy to sit down for coffee with you some time this week. For now this young man has been waiting for you quite long enough," her tone was mild but her meaning was understood. She indicated the seat in front of the desk, and watched with a little mirth as Gerard actually took a minute step back in surprise. "This is Aaron Keller." She purposely threw his last name in to emphasize Gerard's moment of unbalance.

"Well, why don't we sit down in my office and talk," the older man recovered, shaking hands with the young man. Aaron followed him to the room, throwing a raised eyebrow at Vanessa.

'Keep the door open,' Vanessa mouthed, and nodded to indicate that she would be standing unobtrusively by the filing cabinets. Aaron nodded, and quickly pulled his chair into the path of the door when the department head invited him to sit.

Olivia motioned her over to the desk, "What was _that?"_ she whispered.

"I'll tell you later," Vanessa replied evenly. She stepped out into the hall and, regardless of the hour, dialed the landline at the townhouse. _Home,_ she thought with a tinge of surprise, waiting for someone to pick up.

"Grissom," a sleepy voice slurred into the receiver.

"Gil, its me. I'm really sorry to wake you. We might have a problem down here."

"Wha's'sat?" he mumbled.

"Another ghost." Her irritation was leeching into her voice. "I'm at the University. You're never gonna guess who's the head of the sociology department."

"Whozat?" she could hear him waking up, no doubt his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Your friend, and coincidentally mine, Philip Gerard." Her tone was heavy with sarcasm.

"What?" he was awake now. "Is Aaron in there yet?"

"Yeah, I made sure he left the door open so I can keep an eye on things. Olivia doesn't have any serious info for me yet. Its not gonna be long before he has this figured out -- the only advantage is there's three of us and one of him," she struggled to find something ridiculous in the situation, as was her habit. Laugh at it and its easier to deal with.

"How do you know him?" Gil was taking their conversation apart and putting the pieces back together.

"That's sort of a long story. Best discussed away from the sociology department. I don't think he remembered me. I'll be home again before long," she replied, feeling a happy shiver in spite of her irritation at the thought of 'home.'

"I don't think he ever forgot a damn thing in his life. I want to know exactly what happened. Present and past," his tone brooked no argument.

Vanessa sighed, "yeah." Then, in a hushed voice, "love you." So much for her trunk.

**Chapter Seventeen: Buried **

Vanessa made an appointment to sit down with Gerard for coffee later that week, and left a whispered message with Olivia to call her if the man started asking too many questions, and a promise to call her later with the details. Later, as in, after hours. She didn't trust Gerard for a second. No further than she could throw him.

Aaron actually had to trot to keep up with her on the way back out to the parking lot. "What the _hell?_" he caught her by the elbow, frustrated.

"We'll talk at home," she told him, her voice tense. She slid into the driver's seat and slammed the door after her. This was definitely a cigarette moment. This was definitely a time for loud music. She couldn't believe he hadn't recognized her. She flipped through the CD organizer again, exchanging the morning's CD for Eminem. Top volume.

She found herself continually backing off the gas pedal on the way back to the town house. _You won't get there any faster if you get pulled over,_ she thought, drudging out the old cliché. She still slalomed into the driveway five minutes sooner than she should have, getting out, slamming the door once more, then kicking the wheel for good measure, before heading up the steps and to the door.

They walked in to find the other three sitting around the table already, looking at them expectantly. "Do I get to figure out what the hell is going on here?" Aaron demanded. "Why in the name of Christ was that guy giving me the third degree?"

Vanessa went to the sink and started scrubbing breakfast dishes, silently at first, but slowly a litany of obscenity started escaping her lips, low and gruff. "I knew I recognized that name. I Goddam knew it. Rotten rat fucker. Sell out. Waste of skin. Trash. I'd like to..." she tapered off, returning to her thoughts, scrubbing plates and cups, plunging her hands into the almost boiling water.

"How is it that you are so familiar with him?" Gil asked, chancing closer proximity with her. His hand went to her shoulder, trying to get her to turn around and actually look at him.

Vanessa's jaw clenched and she spat more obscenity through her bared teeth. Gil tried again, "put down the dishes and talk to us."

He was encroaching on her space. Usually he was more considerate -- respectful -- than that. She knew perfectly well the issue was going to need to get settled. She knew she'd have to tell him about how she'd come to know his former mentor. She didn't want to discuss it at all. Not with anyone. Definitely not with three other people she barely knew. Safer to scrub dishes and be pissed -- at least that had seemed like a feasible plan of action.

"There is a special place in hell for people like him," she growled, and continued to scrub, placing the last dish into the rack, and looking for more.

She was about to pull the rest of the dinner plates out of the cupboard and keep washing when Gil caught her arm and pulled her around. She jerked her arm out of his grip, taking a step backward, "who the hell do you think _you _are?" He almost didn't recognize her. Her face was flushed, her eyes had become cold and hard, and lines had formed around her eyes and in her forehead he'd never seen before, consequence of the frown that fixed her features into a mask of rage.

He moved back in and grabbed her arm, holding her tightly, but cautious not to hurt her. She tried to jerk back again, but he stayed with her this time. Her vision had narrowed to a pin point, the rest of the room around her going black around her. The only thing she saw was Gil, standing in front of her. She pushed at him with all her strength, and he fell back a pace, but held on. Instead of waiting for her to try to break away again, he pulled her into a rough embrace.

Slowly, the smell of him and the feel of his arms around her brought her back to reality. She was shaking and tired. She looked up at him, hiding her face from the collected group of people at the kitchen table. "What did I do?" she asked softly.

"Its okay," he told her.

"No, its not. I made a target out of you. That's not okay," she shook her head, fighting tears.

"Its okay. We'll cross that bridge later. I know that big explosions come in small packages," he hugged her tighter. "That was impressive, though. You should show Ecklie that face. I bet he'd find another lab to harass."

She couldn't believe he was joking. She had almost lost her mind, much as she had almost twenty years ago. The last time she'd run into Philip Gerard. That time, she'd let anger drive her, and she'd lost. She had exhausted herself and everyone around her. She'd felt it possess her again, if only for a moment, and it frightened her.

She sagged into him, taking deep breaths. "So we won't let you get a gun permit," he joked again.

She looked up at him, smiling weakly, "why do you think I don't have one?"

"On the off chance you run into Philip Gerard? Is there anyone else running around out there you'd be prone to murder I oughtta know about? I'm not good with surprises," he replied.

"I can only think of one," she said, with a glance at Aaron. "I met Gerard under bad circumstances. He took a bribe, Gil. A man was extradited to Texas and executed so that Gerard could line his pocket. An innocent man. I didn't try hard enough," her voice shook at the last. "I should have been able to do something, but I was too busy being pissed at him."

"This was while he was still in Hennepin?" Gil asked, eyes going a little wide.

"Yeah. I don't know if he was always like that. I hope not. He let a serial killer go free while he sent an innocent man up the river. For money and politics," she shook her head again.

"You knew him? The man that Gerard put away?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice. All those years later, she still couldn't believe it. How could someone do that? "It was almost twenty years ago. I beat a path to his office door fairly frequently back then. He kept encouraging me to go into forensics," she laughed a little. "Funny how life works, isn't it? He thought I had good skills for it, and he liked my tenacity," she told him wryly.

"Then I read that case file, the bullshit he pulled on you -- " she just stopped, at a loss for words. "I guess I'm a little protective," she finished weakly.

"Just a little," he deadpanned. "Here. Let's go sit down."

"I can't sit down with your family after that. They're gonna think I'm nuts. I think I definitely proved that I'm not good enough for you," she said, miserable. "I knew I'd screw that whole thing up eventually, though."

"What thing?"

"With your family. I'd do something that they'd disapprove of. Like lose my temper," she cited recent events.

"There is an explanation for everything. I think they'll understand. Believe it or not, most of the women in my family are quite a bit like you," he confided. He, also, had revealed relatively little about his childhood or his extended family.

"I hope you're right. I don't think they could get me away from you with a pry bar. Its not your average, ordinary human being who has what it takes to put up with me. I know you're lapsed, but have you ever considered running for sainthood?" she teased to let some of the pressure off that was building in her shoulders.

"I don't think that's quite how it works. And I'm pretty sure I'm out of the running, anyhow," he said as he led her over to the table, stopping at the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

Three pairs of eyes looked at them expectantly. Vanessa just focused on a spot on the glass table top, not wanting to explain herself to any of them, suddenly feeling very claustrophobic.

Aaron, impatiently, took Gil to task. "What was that? What should I know?"

"I used to work with him," Gil explained slowly. "I thought he was a decent person, and I was wrong." He shrugged to finish his statement.

Eleanor looked at him with sharp eyes, foregoing the formality of sign language. "What do you mean?"

"He oversaw an investigation at my lab a few years ago. We worked around the clock -- the whole group -- and we just barely made it past him. At the end, he tried to use my hearing loss against me."

"Hearing loss?" it was Ruth's turn to fix him with a stare.

"That's beside the point. I had an operation and its fine now," he glanced over the subject, eliciting frustrated looks from the women. "I guess Vanessa had a run in with him. He's a lot dirtier than I gave him credit for."

Vanessa sipped her water as all eyes shifted to her, waiting for her response. With an effort, she kept her voice steady. "I was volunteering with the Red Cross and found myself in Minneapolis after handling a tornado site. A friend of ours -- our group at the time -- was arrested and charged with serial murder. Gerard accepted a bribe to have him extradited to Texas where he was tried and executed, but I could never prove it." There. It was done.

It took Eleanor and Ruth a moment to absorb the information. Aaron, however, sat forward, looking closely at Vanessa, studying her body language. Gil's arm was still wrapped around her shoulder, and she leaned into him, grateful for his support, both physical and otherwise. "So this guy, who now runs the sociology department, was taking bribes and compromising evidence," he looked at Vanessa, who nodded, then looked at Gil, "and tried to threaten you because you were having trouble with a genetic disorder?" Aaron's lips were pressed in a thin line.

"That's about it," Vanessa confirmed. She straightened and got up to grab her cigarettes out of her purse and headed for the patio. Her shoulders looked like they were weighted.

She had never really mourned Tony's death. While she felt that that might be unkind to him, and his memory, she did feel that it was safer for her. If she confronted the reality, she might never come up for air again. He'd been the closest thing she'd had to a sibling, the only person after college that she'd felt comfortable opening up to -- until now. So, she'd spent a lot of time angry, a lot of time chasing ways, first to free him, then to avenge him, but she'd never accepted that he wasn't part of her world anymore. Hadn't even gone to see his grave marker or spoken to his family. She'd failed them, their son had died, it was her fault, she couldn't face them. For years, she'd been fueled by anger over the situation, until finally she ran herself into the ground, collapsed one night at the restaurant she'd taken a job at so she could stay in town and pay her bills while she fought for her friend's life and good name. She'd landed in the hospital, underweight, malnourished, dehydrated, stomach riddled with ulcers. For her sanity and her health, she'd had to find a way to push her obsession away, to lock it up some place 'safe,' so she could pretend to let go of it.

Now she sat on a chair on the patio, sucking smoke into her lungs, deriving satisfaction from the self destructive aspect of the act, pondering what her next move was going to be. For starters, she was going to get a grip on her temper. She couldn't do anything if she acted like she belonged in a straight jacket. She felt a chill calm descend over her, allowing her mind to stop spinning and the various loose pieces of information to settle. She was older now. More patient. More skilled. He was still going to see her coming a mile away -- she'd brought Aaron down there, who bore a rather striking resemblance to Gil (to put it lightly). He'd have that association figured out fairly rapidly, even though she threw out Helen's last name to complicate things for him. Therefore, if A plus B equaled C, her association to Gil would be known in short order.

Her thoughts went on in this pattern, taking apart the incident, analyzing tone, body language, and a million other minute details. Did she look so different now than she did twenty years ago? She supposed so, in some respects. Chestnut hair was now shot with strands of silver in places. She had a few laugh lines. Her figure hadn't changed appreciably -- God knows she hadn't grown any since she was about thirteen. Maybe it was a question of association and environment. She was no longer in the environment in which he'd known her, therefore, his mind didn't recognize her placement in this environment as sequential. _Oh, who the hell knows what he thinks,_ she left off, shaking her head.

She heard the door slide open, then click closed again. "Who is it?" she asked.

"Me," Ruth said. Vanessa instantly got up out of her chair, offering it to the older woman.

Vanessa looked at the older woman who waved her back into the chair, not bothering to hide the bitterness in her expression. "Have you come out here to tell me that you have decided I'm not fit to be with Gil?" She hadn't resumed her seat, waiting instead for Ruth to sit down first.

"No. Eleanor and I are fairly good at reminding each other that he's a big boy now and gets to make his own decisions," she said.

"That would explain some of the ties he cleaned out of his drawer. Maybe you two should reconsider that..." humor as defense.

"Has he told you how I wound up part of the family?" Ruth sat down on an old lawn chair facing the deck chair that Vanessa had originally occupied.

"No," her curiosity piqued, she sat down, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.

"We were neighbors for many years," Ruth started, "we lived in a duplex. Eleanor and Robertwere there when my Isaac passed away. Barely thirty years and I was already a widow." She sighed heavily, and the story wandered backwards a few paces. "Isaac and I were released from the camp together. We were at Dachau at the last. I was fifteen, and Isaac about twenty-five. _Oy, gevaldt_, don't think I don't know how lucky we were to get out, when the Allies came in and started investigating. They'd been running the furnaces constantly. Even in August, the ground looked like it was covered with dirty snow. And the smell -- so many bodies in pits, in that heat. I felt sure there were people in those pits I had known, but I never would have recognized them. Not just the fresh pits, but the ones the Allies were digging up, trying to figure out the extent of what had happened. Isaac and I had nothing. No one but each other. We made our way back to Poland, to look for any family that might have been left behind, checking every time a new list came out, telling us who had died and who they had found alive. There was never anyone. All that was left of my shtetl was a few houses and the dirt road that wound through. That made it official, we were on our own."

"They wouldn't let us come to America without someone to sponsor us. This was in 1947, two years after we left the camp. Isaac found a way around it, though. There was a temple that was sponsoring survivors in California. They didn't have one person to act as sponsor, though, because they were waiting for immigration papers to clear so they could bring more over. On a hunch, Isaac asked if there were any similar programs. There was a lot of work in that area, so we were hoping to go there. He was a tailor back in his village -- well, an apprentice, actually. But he thought he could get work in America doing that kind of thing, somehow. Marina del Rey was getting to be a popular area for young couples to move to and raise their families, which meant retail stores were increasing.

"It was 1948 when, through a program at a Catholic church in the area, someone stepped in for our case, but even they only had one person to sponsor us, but Isaac said that that wouldn't be a problem, and that he would have our papers in order. I was confused, but he had the ship's captain draw up the paperwork on the journey over and marry us so that everything would be legitimate."

Vanessa didn't hear the door slide open behind her as Gil stepped out on the porch, she was too enthralled with what she was hearing. He leaned against the glass of the door and just listened to the story he'd heard in bits and pieces so many times before in his life, but never all in one continuous thread. He'd been watching the two women from his place at the kitchen table, reading Ruth's lips and body language, and found himself pulled outside so that he could hear it for himself.

"Well, we got to New York and oy! what a mob! We were almost separated after that whole long, miserable trip. It had taken every penny we could scrape together to get on that ship, and even then, we weren't in a room. I slept with the cleaning ladies, and worked with them during the day. Isaac learned how to work in the engine room and slept with the crew. We finally found each other outside the immigration office, and we were on our own again, to get to Marina del Rey. We had to get in touch with our sponsoring family, but had no idea how to do so. We had their telephone number, but no money for a phone call, certainly not long distance.

"I had learned some English on the way over, and found a temple in the area. They were Reform," she said with a pointed look at Vanessa, "but no one has ever been able to tell me since that they are any less Jewish than Orthodox, I don't care what anyone says. They were kind and ethical, helped us contact our sponsor. The first thing I heard on the phone was a young woman with some sort of speech impediment yelling for her parents that we were 'here!'" Ruth waved her hands to imitate the excitement she remembered in the voice.

"A woman came and talked to us on the phone. Margaret Jacobson, the girl's mother. The girl was Gil's mother," Ruth smiled at him. "I told them, 'we are in New York. I don't know how we're going to get to where you are. We have no money.' She told me not to worry ourselves about it. The church had ensured that we had train tickets to San Francisco, where they would pick us up."

"It took a few years, I think it was 1953, but our naturalization papers were finalized and we had rented one side of a duplex in town. Isaac had found work building houses of all things -- what _mishegos_, a tailor building houses, but he seemed to like it, out in the fresh air. After the camps, he decided that the last thing he wanted was to spend his life cloistered with a needle and thread like he had with so many others. It depressed him.

"Eleanor was ahead of schedule with high school," another pointed look at Gil, "the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?" Vanessa turned around, finally noticing he was there, as he looked at his shoes, a little self conscious. "She was already taking classes at the college, where she met this boy. What a flap that was. She was all of seventeen, and he was twenty-three. Her parents about had heart attacks until she finally persuaded them to let him come over for dinner so they could meet him." Ruth rolled her eyes, remembering the night. "Eleanor's father was against it, completely dead set. He said she was too young, she had her whole education ahead of her, and didn't see why she wanted to saddle herself with someone -- 'going steady,' -- very risqué. So he was stomping around the house like a freight train, grumbling at everyone. Her mother was cleaning everything, and cooking -- three days before the dinner. Couldn't have a stranger into the house and not have everything perfect. Then it came out, the night before that he wasn't Catholic, and the _sheisse_ really hit the fan.

"Her hearing was almost totally gone already, and it was the only time I ever saw her turn her back on someone. For a deaf person to turn their back to you? The epitome of being cut off. She didn't see what their issue was, since they'd helped bring a Jewish couple to the country. How could they have a problem with this? Her father stormed around the living room, shouting, and she turned her back on him until her Margaret got him settled down with a glass of whiskey. I had been sitting at the kitchen table, catching up on the news with her when the fireworks started. I sat back and watched the whole thing, Eleanor was looking at me for support. What could I do? I was caught in the middle. I felt for her, genuinely, but I couldn't hurt the people who had given us so much help when we'd needed it.

"I asked her what church he did go to, she told me he didn't. He went hiking on the weekends. He wanted to appreciate God, not in a man-made house, but in a more natural space. I could respect that. Turns out, Robert had misspent parts of his youth and had been living by his own rules for quite some time at that point. Eleanor was infatuated with him, there was no way around it. So I told Eleanor to wait in her room while I talked to Margaret. We went outside and sat under the awning on the back porch -- it was a beautiful evening, I remember that. I told her that their daughter had her mind made up. To let the boy come over for dinner and reserve their judgment. I told her, if its just a phase, it will run its course, and the less they said about it, the better. If it isn't, they were risking losing her, she was that determined. I'd seen enough of families torn apart in the camps to see it happen over something as relatively silly as religion. It wasn't worth that. Margaret understood, and Robert arrived for dinner promptly at six the next night, looking terribly handsome in a suit. Isaac and I were there, the family wanted our opinion on the situation. Moreover, Margaret did, so that if she had to she could talk George around if she had to.

"George was making his take on the situation apparent, so Margaret was out-doing herself trying to off-set his attitude. Isaac was the first one to really talk to him, sitting on the couch waiting for the ladies to bring out h'ors deurves and drinks. Eleanor came tripping downstairs, making a grand entrance in a new dress -- she was a nervous wreck, sitting in the bathroom until she had every single hair in its proper place, straightening her dress, fidgeting with her makeup. I finally had to go up there and tell her to knock it off and come down stairs.

"It was obvious he was smitten with her the second he saw her. I thought to myself, 'this is no phase.' All you had to do was look at them. Margaret saw it, too. It took George a little longer and a lot more arguing. Margaret threatened to stop making dinner altogether if he didn't come around, and that man had no idea what to do in the kitchen. He could hardly pour a glass of water.

"Well, George and Robert came to an understanding. Eleanor was to finish her education. He was to finish his education. There would be no...how did he put it?...making whoopee until they were decently married. So on and so forth. Robert must have thought a lot of Eleanor, because with his checkered past, for him to abide by such rules was almost unheard of. And we kept a watch on him. He wasn't just behaving himself while we were looking and then cutting up while our backs were turned.

"By 1955, Eleanor had graduated with her degree in Art History and Robert was finishing his last quarter toward a Master's in Botany. Eleanor came home with a ring on her finger one night, and no one was really too surprised. They'd been together for almost three years, as it turned out." She raised her eyebrows at Gil, "back then you didn't just 'go out' for years and years on end. It would be nice to have another wedding in the family before I die. Far be it for me to ask anything of you," she was laying on the guilt thick, but teasingly. "I told Vanessa earlier, you're a big boy, you can make your own choices, though." Her wishes were still clear, though.

"Isaac and I set it up for them to move in to the space next to ours in the duplex. It was closer to the college, and we made a deal with the owner to take care of a portion of their rent for them as a wedding gift, so they could get started.

"Wouldn't you know, it didn't take them long. Must have been all that waiting around George made them put up with. They were married in June 1955 and she was pregnant already before Christmas! It was so wonderful to have a baby around -- Isaac and I wanted children, but were never able to, you see. So, immediately, he was my favorite nephew. He was my only nephew, we had no family outside of them, Eleanor's family. I can't begin to tell you what that meant, even if we had to celebrate Christmas and Hannukah together some years and such. And smart! Gil was so smart, you could see it in his eyes the second they brought him home. He watched everything," she looked at the man the child had become, "if you don't like it, go back in. I have every right to brag about you," she scolded.

"He was already reading by the time he was three, knew his numbers. He gave Eleanor and Robert no end of trouble, he was so quiet and so curious that he got into things before they knew what happened. I don't know what I would have done without my little family after Isaac passed. That was in 1960, Gil was four. If I hadn't already committed myself to watching him during the week while Eleanor worked at the gallery and Robert was putting the finishing touches on his PhD, I don't think I would have ever left my bed again. He had a heart attack, at his job site. By then he wasn't just working sites, he was running them. Just collapsed in the middle of inspecting something to do with the floors. Gil, at four years old, seemed to understand a little bit. He wasn't his usual self for a while, like he was trying to give me a break and get my legs back under me before I had to chase him around again.

"I survived it, though," she heaved a sigh that spoke louder than words. Part of her was still with Isaac, whether he was at her side or in the ground. "And then, in 1965, Robert came home from work -- it was so hot that summer, he shouldn't have been out at all. On the news, even, they were telling everyone to stay inside, and run their fans and air conditioning, to hell with the power bills -- but, he had an experiment he had to check on. The temperatures were so hot, he was afraid it was ruined. I was laying down in my bedroom when I heard Eleanor scream. Robert had just laid down on the couch while she was in the kitchen and when she came back, he was dead. They called it heart failure, but knowing what we know now about some of the chemicals he must have used...well...

"It wasn't long after that that child services showed up at the door. Eleanor had had to apply for state benefits so that they could get by until she figured things out. Poor Gil was nine, just turned nine, and he was so withdrawn after his father died. He was just a totally different little boy. It broke our hearts to see him like that. Child services had learned that Eleanor was deaf and they were questioning whether or not she was a fit parent for Gil. Eleanor fought them tooth and nail, but it still looked like they were going to take him. Her parents' health was not so good anymore and they couldn't take him. Robert had been adopted into a large family, but they all lived in Pennsylvania; at any rate, Robert hadn't seen much of them since he'd moved to the coast. Of course, after he died, they started moving out there in fits and spurts, now there's almost none of them left in Pennsylvania.

"They just weren't listening to her at all. Interpreters would fail to show up for court dates, things weren't explained to her. They were treating her like some sort of simpleton. Finally, her legal counsel asked me to come to court with her. I told the judge I'd known her family for fifteen years, that I lived next door to Eleanor, and that I felt like they were my family. I told him about how about how Isaac and I left Dachau with nothing, and how her family had helped us. About how she had helped me after Isaac died. And how I was with Gil every day of the week, like family. I stood there and told the entire court that I would vouch for his safety and her fitness to be his parent, and they could throw me in jail if they were able to prove otherwise," she looked a little defiant about the matter, even now, some forty years later. "After Dachau, there wasn't much the courts could do to scare me.

"And so, on all the old legal documents, Eleanor and I are both listed as guardians, until he turned eighteen, of course, at which point we had to turn him loose," she laughed. "I just wanted you to know. You can't let anger or grudges be your motivation in life. Its just another way that people can control you. Even after we were released from the camps, so many people carried bitterness with them, and it killed them. Some of them, physically. Some of them just never started living again -- the camps had killed their spirits. So, in a way, the Nazis still destroyed them, even though they'd survived," she stood and put a hand on Vanessa's shoulder, "Gil deserves someone who will stand up for him and support him. Not that he can't do for himself, but more often than not, he'd rather ignore it. You do it naturally, though. That's good. I just thought you should know." With that, she went inside.

Half way through her narrative, Gil had pulled a second deck chair along side Vanessa's, his hand had caught hers. Vanessa was finding it hard to breathe, taking in everything that Ruth had seen and lived through. Her story was epic. She'd seen the old remnants of a tattoo on the older woman's forearm, but had been reluctant to ask about it since she had gone to pains to wear long sleeves, which could only be to hide the fact in this climate.

"Wow," was all she could say, leaning over so that her head rested on his shoulder.

"I've never heard the whole thing all at one time. Not with that detail," he said quietly as they looked at the stars that were starting to peek out in the twilight. "I knew she'd been in the camps, but Dachau..." he shivered. "She's lucky to be alive at all. No wonder she doesn't talk about it much."

Vanessa couldn't repress the shudder that ran through her as she sat in the cool night air. She'd spoken with Holocaust survivors, and had formed relatively close relationships with some. She'd even been able to internalize some of their stories and experiences. But this was different. This was family -- and Ruth had as much as said it. She wondered if Eleanor felt the same way.

Gil looked at her closely in the darkness, which was to some extent alleviated by the kitchen lights filtering through the sliding glass doors. The way the light and shadow played across her features. "I remember. I was looking at transferring to another lab," he told her. "You wore bulky sweaters and tight jeans. I even interviewed you once, then Gerard took me off the case. I was angry that he assigned me to work on lower priority cases at the time; I felt I could handle a serial murder. Now I know why he chased me off. I must have got too close to something," his arm went across her shoulders when her head dropped and she stared intently at her hands. "The sweaters got bulkier, and the jeans got looser. Your hair was shorter then, wasn't it? I accidentally walked in on a conversation between Gerard and the Sheriff. They were wondering what to do about you -- you were in their faces almost every day. Until you just stopped coming around...I'm so sorry." He held her tight as she fought back more tears.

"Why did you stop coming around?" he asked quietly.

"Because. They sent him to Texas and they murdered him. I didn't care about anything else. I couldn't save him. I couldn't even clear his name after the fact. Its all I did, day and night, even when I was schlepping shitty food to truckers at two in the morning. I wound up in the hospital, and I had to give up on it. It was going to kill me. So I chickened out. I saved myself," her voice broke at the last.

"What do you mean, chickened out?" he asked, concerned.

"Why should I have the luxury of living my life free and clear when he was killed for something he didn't do?"

"And, all these years later, you're still beating yourself over it. I hardly call that 'free and clear,' " he admonished her lightly.

"Wouldn't you?" she asked. "If you'd found out Frank Damon had been executed, and knew there was something you could have done to keep an innocent man from being murdered at the hands of the state, wouldn't you kick yourself?"

He sighed. "I suppose I would," he admitted. "How did you wind up in the hospital?"

They sat in the dark and she quietly told him the story, hoping that the anchor that she had put around her neck all those years ago wouldn't wind up around his, too.

**Chapter Eighteen: Security**

It was two in the morning. Gil still had another week of vacation, so they lay in bed together, neither of them sleeping. For once, she was curled up, facing away from him. Instead of feeling lighter for sharing her burden, it felt ten times heavier. It weighed on her shoulders and constricted her chest. She felt like she was made of lead, like she'd never move again. She didn't want to move ever again. The idea of straying outside the bedroom, with its heavy draperies that blocked out sunlight, made her stomach tie itself in knots an Eagle Scout would envy. To actually interact with another person? That, she couldn't even think about.

"You should get some sleep," she whispered.

"It'd just throw off my schedule," he replied. "How could I sleep? I don't know what's going on in your head, but I know it isn't good. I miss having you wrapped around me."

"I thought that I had it all locked away, where I was safe from it. Where everyone else would be safe from it. Now I've dumped everything on you, after damn near attacking you earlier. That was not one of my shining moments. You shouldn't have to put up with me and all my...history."

"Give me one good reason," the mattress creaked a little as he rolled to his side and she felt his hand on her back.

"Because. I can barely deal with me. That's why I bury stuff. I shouldn't ask anyone else to deal with the things that I can't deal with myself." Her voice was miserable in a dry, brittle kind of way.

"There's a habit I can relate to," he mumbled. "Ruth would tell you that sharing a burden makes it lighter. Or some such thing. I'm know there's a proverb to that effect, but my memory can't pull it up right now. On a similar note, I'm sure that I'm going to get taken to task about my operation tomorrow," he said with a grimace.

"You didn't tell them?" she asked, surprised. She had seen how close he was with the two women.

"No. I didn't see any reason to worry them. It would either work, or it wouldn't. If it hadn't, there would have been enough to deal with then. It did, though. They would have worried over nothing."

"You realize that isn't going to work on them. _I _get it. In fact, I probably would have done the same thing, with the same logic. And at the same time, I think if you did something like that without telling me, I'd probably kick your ass," she tried to resist the wry smile that was tugging at her lips in spite of her emotional state.

"I would have told you. I could have gotten out of the hospital sooner if I'd had a driver," he responded. "You did everything you could, Vanessa. You did more than anyone else could. Nothing anyone did would have been enough. You've got to realize that." His arm found its way around her waist. "I told you I remember. I remember seeing the toll it took on you. I didn't associate the person I see now with the person that I saw driving herself to an early grave back in Minneapolis. Every time I saw you, you'd lost more weight, you'd lost more sleep, your eyes were lined. The circles under your eyes were almost black. I didn't understand why you were so obsessed with the case. Gerard is a bottom feeder -- I told him as much, in fact. But he's good at what he does. I doubt he left a stitch of evidence to tie him to what went on. He knows how to cover that kind of thing. My entire team _barely_ pushed past him, and they are some of the best there is."

"But -- "

He cut her off. "Vanessa. Please. Tony couldn't have had a better friend. You don't have a thing to regret. Unless you let this eat you alive again. And if you do, I'm afraid I'll track Gerard down myself and." He was almost afraid to finish the sentence. Anything he did to his former mentor would surely affect his career somehow. Hell, he could wind up arrested and summarily fired. If he strangled the former investigator like he was inclined to at the moment. Instead, he pulled her closer to him. "You didn't lay anything on me that I can't handle. I'm glad you told me," he kissed the back of her neck. "I want to know about you. What drives you. What you're afraid of. Everything," more kisses. "Let me hold you." He pulled her around to face him, so that she could rest her head in the crook of his shoulder. He felt her shoulders start to shake and realized that she was crying. Every tear represented her anger at herself: for her failure, for her inability to face the people who had been close to her and Tony, for never going to see her friend's grave, for not being there with him at the last, when he'd needed her most. Instead, she'd been poring over his case, looking for some glitch, some hang up, that would grant him that last second reprieve. She cried because she'd been lugging this around with her for twenty years, and in some way, it had contributed to many of the failures she'd had since. Most of all, she finally grieved for Tony, acknowledging that he was gone, and that there wasn't a damn thing she would ever be able to do about it. Even if she cleared his name, some day in the distant future, it wouldn't bring him back.

When she finally ran dry, her eyes were swollen and blood shot and her nose felt like a boulder. Her head was starting to ache, as well. She snuffled ungracefully, looked up at the man who had held her steady through it all, and smiled. "I'm scared of earthquakes."

He laughed lightly and handed her a box of kleenex from the night stand. She sat up and scrubbed at her face, noticing the shift in the bed as he got up. There was a click as he turned on the bathroom light, and he came back with a cool rag for her eyes. "You sound like a fog horn," he teased as she blew her nose again.

"I'm not one of those women who can do these things 'cute.' I blow my nose, I cough and spit, I'm a messy crier. For the record, I also belch and scratch, but I thought I'd keep those under wraps until we're out of the honeymoon-phase," she looked at him thought damp eyelashes. "Is that something you think you can handle?"

He nodded and settled himself back into bed. "That's okay. You snore once in a while, too."

She looked at him with her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open. "I do _not_!"

"Yes, you do. Not horribly. It's not like sleeping next to a wind tunnel or anything. But you do snore. I can tape it if you'd like," he suggested, grinning at her.

"No," she grumbled, admitting defeat. "Fine, I snore. You talk in _your_ sleep. So there."

"Hmmm," he pondered the statement. "Seems like I've been told that before. Helen said I babbled, actually." She was still amazed that he could talk about her without any anger. In fact, since connecting with Aaron, he didn't even seem to be bitter about her. It was like finding his son had lifted that from him.

"Well," she huffed, jokingly. "I guess I don't have anything on you."

"You sure about that?" he asked, keeping his voice low as he pulled her to him and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her. She let herself melt into his embrace and contented herself to just feel safe and loved for a moment. He pulled away from her, his eyes searching hers, "I've gotten to kind of need that. I love you."

The next day, true to form, Eleanor and Ruth both took Gil to task about not mentioning his operation.

"What were you thinking? We could have come out and helped you!" Ruth cried.

Eleanor didn't bother using her hands. That was how Gil had always known he was in trouble. That and his full name. "How could you not tell your own Mother? Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

Gil just shrugged, looking between the two of them. "I didn't want you to worry over nothing." Now that he said it to their faces, it didn't sound as good as it had in his head. In fact, it sounded pretty pathetic.

"I knew something was wrong. You didn't call that week or the week after. Ruth said you didn't sound right the time you called the week before. You said you were just working too much...you _lied_ to me Gil," Eleanor was furious with him. "I don't care how old you are. I'm _still_ your Mother. I will _always_ be one step ahead of you. Do you think I don't know what would happen if you lost your hearing? You'd have to find a new career. I don't know how you'd do that. I can't imagine you doing anything else and being happy. And you don't talk to me about it. I can't believe you."

When she turned away from him and resumed her seat at the kitchen table, he went to the coffee pot. Vanessa heard the racket and trundled down the hall in jeans and a tee shirt, still shaking off the last of a restless slumber. "What's going on out here?"

Gil anticipated her first move and got a cup of coffee for her, as well. "We're just having a light family discussion," he told her.

"Mmmm," she acknowledge, sticking her nose above the cup in hopes that the smell of the brew would clear a few of the cobwebs from her mind.

"Gil-bert Michael," Eleanor started, "we are not finished."

Vanessa bit back a giggle as he cringed. Yup. He was definitely in trouble. Damn. Fifty years old and he still felt like ten when she used his full name like that.

He turned and sat back down, followed by Vanessa. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. If it helps, Doc Robbins lectured me already when he found out I waited as long as I did. I didn't want _anyone_ to know."

Ruth leaned forward, "what I don't understand is why, _bubeleh_. Did you think we wouldn't understand?"

He was going to have to 'fess up, distasteful as it was to him. Vanessa reached over and squeezed his hand with a small smile. He sighed and rolled his eyes a little, earning him another stern look from Eleanor, "because. If anyone knew, I might have to deal with the idea that it was real."

Eleanor was not impressed. "You studied genetics in college, Gilbert. You should have understood that you would have a predisposition to this. It does run in my family. Why wouldn't you get it checked out when you first suspected something was wrong?"

"Because. Like I told Doc Robbins, I thought it would go away." He didn't like how silly that sounded, but that had indeed been the reason. No sense dressing it up.

"Denial, Gil. That's not like you." Ruth shook her head.

"I don't know what else to say. I've apologized. I've explained. Can we get past it already?" he was getting frustrated.

"Did I just see you getting smart?" Eleanor was trying to let it go and not succeeding. Finally, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Do you know that I've been afraid for you since you were born?" she asked, eyes shining. "And then, what I was afraid of happens, and you don't even tell me. What am I supposed to think?"

Vanessa piped up, hoping to smooth things over a little. "Well, you know that I'll rat him out now, don't you?"

All eyes went to her. She thought that she heard Gil mutter something about traitors and she gave his hand another affectionate squeeze.

Ruth gave her a smile, while Eleanor looked back at Gil sadly. "There's a reason you're an only child. I couldn't handle the idea that I'd pass that on to more than one. And you had so much potential -- the world was wide open to you. And I was waiting for it to shut down on you, and there would be nothing you could do about it."

Ruth reached over and laid her hand on Eleanor's shoulder reassuringly. "Is there anything else you haven't told us?"

"I'm sure there is," he replied. "My idea of what's newsworthy doesn't necessarily match everyone else's, though."

"I'll snitch on him if he so much as sniffles. How's that?" Vanessa offered.

Eleanor stood up and walked around the table to stand by her son. "I love you. But I really want to slap you on the head sometimes. Do you know that, Gil?"

He knew when she started calling him 'Gil' again, the worst was over. Eleanor's temper ran hot, but once she let go, it generally ran its course quickly. He'd noted that's where she and Vanessa diverged: Vanessa could boil very slowly for a long time, not letting go of a thing, and when she did, she toted it around with her for a long while.

Gil nodded in response to his Mother's last statement, then turned to look at her. "I know," he smiled a little sheepishly. "Love you, too, Mom."

Eleanor growled a little under her breath and mussed his hair. "What am I going to do with you?"

"I don't know, you already broke my plate and threw my mattress out the door," he teased. That time he did get a -- gentle -- slap on the head.

Vanessa couldn't help laughing at the exchange between the two. He was very different than he was with the people at the lab, who he counted among his closest friends.

The phone rang and Ruth reached over to answer it. With an apologetic look, she handed it to Vanessa.

"Yeah," she said shortly. Right after she got up was usually not the best time for her to interact with people outside of those she considered to be part of home.

It was Diana, "we have a problem down here. I know you weren't scheduled to come in until midnight, but I need some help." There was silence in the back ground. Not a good sign. She should be hearing _something_. Voices. Music. The squeak of shoes on smooth concrete.

"What's happening?"

"The police are here. They arrested Ricky -- said he mugged someone. The officer has all the kids lined up and he's taking them into the kitchen one at a time for statements," Diana spoke quietly.

"Why are you hiding, Diana. Did they offer to have an advocate present?" Vanessa asked, impatient.

"This officer. He's...aggressive. I don't want him to know I'm calling you. I don't know if he offered them anything."

"How many there are underage?"

"Ten out of twelve," was Diana's answer.

"Okay. I'm on my way. Could be he's just new and doesn't know what he's doing. Or the power trip hasn't worn off yet. Don't argue with him, and keep the kids that are there, there. But if you think you can without starting any more conflict, get the questions to stop." Vanessa was already out of her chair and slugging back the last of her coffee as she hung up the phone. Her lips were pursed into a thin line and her eyes told everyone at the table she was all business.

"What's happening?" Gil was the first to ask, concern causing his eyebrows to lower.

"The police think Ricky -- I've told you about him, right? -- mugged someone. They've arrested him. There's an officer questioning the rest of them now, individually, in the kitchen. Diana doesn't think he offered counsel or an advocate. I don't know if Ricky knows enough English to really understand what's going on. Same with most of the others there this time of day," she looked at her watch. It was a little past four in the afternoon.

"Do you want me to go with you?" Gil offered.

"No. I don't want to seem like I'm calling out special favors or anything. I may have some questions for you regarding the day shift crew, though."

It took Vanessa about two more minutes before she was out the door and headed toward the center. Diana was standing outside the double doors, looking worried, and there was an officer pacing up and down the walkway in front of her. Vanessa stepped up to the officer first, with a pointed look at Diana. "I'm Vanessa Goldman," she said, sticking her hand out in a friendly gesture. If she could get the cops to look favorably on her work, it would go a long way toward re-knitting some of the rifts that had occurred between law enforcement and the community.

The officer just looked at her hand for a second, then reached out and accepted the gesture. "What's your affiliation with this community center?" He didn't bother to introduce himself.

She looked at his uniform shirt. "Well, Officer Furmansky," she started, in an attempt to break through some of the hostility she felt in the situation. "I manage the program."

"Which program?"

"All of them. The entire building. The center. Its my baby. Why?" her eyes searched his body language to give her some hint as to the 'why' behind his disposition. Did he look like he lacked sleep? Rough day? _Too old to be a rookie,_ she mused, noting his thinning hair and the lines around his eyes.

"I was getting statements from the juveniles who are there now regarding Ricardo Gomez. He's been charged with armed assault and theft." His reply was bare bones, almost formal.

"Officer. Why don't we go inside where its cooler. Would you like for me to make you some coffee? There's water in the fridge..." Vanessa offered.

There was a curt nod from the officer, and she let him walk in first, Diana second, with herself bringing up the rear. Diana was shooting her dirty looks. "Why are being so nice to him?" she spat in a whisper.

Vanessa looked at her with a slow smile, "more flies with honey," she paraphrased, in a voice that was equally hushed. "Sometimes a soft touch will get you further. I don't think Ricky did it, either. He has his problems, but he's made a lot of progress in the last few weeks. He just needed to feel needed. I'm willing to be some of those _pachucos_ he was hanging out with are behind this."

Diana nodded her assent at the last statement, and went to stand with the kids lined up against the wall. Vanessa turned to see them, looking very uncomfortable. "Why don't you all get some chairs out of the closet there?" she called from the opposite side of the room. "And do any of you have homework?" her eyebrows arched knowingly. There was a small collective groan. "I thought so. Why don't you get some of it done while I figure this out."

Furmansky led the way into the kitchen. Vanessa was content to trail behind, letting him feel big and important. Maybe he would relax, get cocky, and really tell her something.

"Welcome to my kitchen," she went to the fridge and got them both a couple of cokes, from her secret stash, the hopped up to sit on the counter so she could look him in the eye. "Now. What can you tell me about what's going on here?"

"I told you already," he said, opening the coke and taking a swig. "Ricardo Gomez mugged a woman the other night. She identified him in a lineup. He already has a record. I need to talk to the rest of the center's attendees to get a complete statement."

"Did you offer the ones who are underage the option of having an advocate present?"

"Not necessary at this point, ma'am. No Miranda Rights have been read to them. I'm simply taking statements."

Vanessa exhaled slowly in frustration. "Okay, then why is it necessary that you get their statement privately, in the kitchen?"

"I want each of their stories to be pure, ma'am. If I interview them collectively, then they will influence each other," his reply left her a little cold.

"Do you know who the arresting officer was when Ricky was taken in?"

"You mean Ricardo. Yes, that would be me."

_Tough crowd,_ she mused lightly, sipping at her own drink. "Yeah. He prefers to be called Ricky. Did you read him his rights in English?" she asked.

"Of course."

"Did he understand them?" she persisted.

"To the best of my knowledge."

"I'm sorry, Officer Furmansky, but that is simply not good enough. I have a feeling you are walking on thin ice, here." Her voice was completely level, even friendly. Her posture was loose and relaxed. Her eyes, however, were getting steelier by the second. She could let this guy take the lead in a diplomatic gesture, but it was her job to direct the center and care for this community. It wasn't a job she took lightly.

"Ma'am," Furmansky started, "you should just let me do my job." His tone was patronizing and Vanessa felt her molars grind together. She took a swig of her drink to give her time to pause and formulate a reply.

"You're making that a little bit difficult for me, with all due respect," she returned, with the same loose, relaxed attitude she'd assumed from the beginning. "My assistant told me you were being aggressive. Would you care to explain that?"

"I'm pursuing leads the best way I know how to." He squashed the can in his hand and threw it in the trash.

Vanessa immediately hopped off the counter and rescued the can, throwing it in a large bin marked 'aluminum.' "We get some of our funds by recycling our aluminum," she explained with a smile. "Gives the taxpayers a break."

His face remained in its seeming perpetual dead-pan. "Ma'am, I need to finish my statements."

"No, you don't. Not like this. I would like to request that an advocate be present when you speak to underage patrons of my community center from now on. I am going to ask you to leave now, or I will be contacting your superior officer," Vanessa told him matter-of-factly.

"You don't understand ma --"

She cut him off before he could jam another 'ma'am' into the conversation. "I think I do. I understand perfectly well. I will ask you one more time, nicely, to leave the premises." Her tone was firm, but the officer didn't take the hint.

Instead he stepped out of the kitchen, walked to the row of teenagers doing their homework under Diana's watchful eye, selected one in the middle, and pulled him to his feet by the collar of his tee shirt.

Vanessa followed him out. "Who is your superior officer?"

"Captain Jim Brass, ma'am," he replied, pulling the kid into the kitchen.

Vanessa blocked his path. Quietly, she looked at the kid, who underneath his tough facade, was completely terrified. He was one of the younger ones. "Andrew. Go back to your chair." His eyes got wide while Furmansky's narrowed.

"I have questions for him, ma'am," he reiterated.

"Let go of him," her voice even quieter. It still rolled through the room. "Andrew, Officer Furmansky is going to let go of your shirt, and I want you to go back to your chair and keep working on your math."

"I don't like your attitude, ma'am," Furmansky observed.

"That's alright. You don't have to. It a free country and I don't have to like you much, either. I'll be calling your superior, now. You'd best let go of Andrew." He obviously didn't believe her, but she continued to stand in his path, barring his entrance to the kitchen.

She fished her cell phone out of her pocket. First she called home. "Hey. We have a problem down here. What's Brass's number at home?...Well, because its one of his subordinates that's the source of the trouble...Thanks. See ya later." She hit 'end' and punched in the new number.

"Hey Jim," her voice sounded almost chipper. At her familiar tone, Furmansky's grip slipped slightly, and Andrew managed to squirm away. Vanessa locked her eyes with the officer and made sure he heard every word of her end of the conversations.

"What's up?" he sounded like he was just getting up.

"I hate to do this to you, bud, but I got a problem with one of your guys down here at the center," she told him. "I don't suppose you could buzz down here and give me a hand settling things out?"

"I suppose I could do that," he sounded gruff, but she knew better. "What happened?"

"One of the kids got taken in last night for a mugging and now he's down here questioning everyone. Which is fine. But he didn't offer for an advocate to be present and he can't tell me one hundred percent that Ricky understood his Miranda Rights," Vanessa explained briefly.

Jim groaned. "I think I have a notion which one of my problem children you're dealing with. What's the story on Ricky?"

"I don't think it was him. He was really getting away from that crowd he was hangin' with. I can't guarantee until I have more details, though. He's been here most evenings, though," Vanessa shook her head.

"Yeah, I'll be down there in ten." The line went dead and Vanessa just stood in front of the officer, holding her ground.

"All right then. We'll get this whole thing settled once and for all, then, won't we?" she said cordially. "I really would like to be able to develop a positive relationship between the center and local law enforcement." With that she turned on her heel and headed outside for a cigarette.

As Jim pulled up, there was commotion from inside. They both burst through the double doors to find Furmansky holding one of the older kids, Troy, up against the wall and yelling at him. Diana was desperately trying to pull the officer away.

"What the hell is going on here?" Vanessa ran into the thick of the conflict and put herself between Furmansky and Troy. There was venom in the younger man's eyes as he watched the officer step back. "What started this?" she demanded, looking every last one of them in the eye.

"He said they were gonna try Ricky as an adult," Troy shouted.

She looked at the officer, "is this true?" it wasn't a question. It was an order.

"The DA wants to charge him as an adult," the officer explained, still deadpan.

She turned back to Troy, knowing his tendency to be a hot head, "did you say _anything_ before he told you that?"

Troy looked a little chagrined. Vanessa tapped her foot and waited. "I told him Ricky would be out in no time. I meant...like...he didn't _do _it, though," he explained quickly. "This is all bullshit! they can't put him away for shit he didn't do! He didn't let me explain! He just came at me, like they always do!"

Vanessa gave him another stern frown, "language, Troy. That kind of relationship between this community and law enforcement is something I am going to work on improving. In the mean time, keep your cool." She turned back to Furmansky. "I take it you didn't like his attitude, either. That's okay, though. You get to explain your actions to Captain Brass here, who is about," Vanessa consulted the clock on the wall, "six hours ahead of shift right now, so I'm sure he's just a ray of sunshine about now."

Brass, who had been watching the exchange quietly, looked at her and smiled tightly.

"I told you he was aggressive!" Diana said sharply to Vanessa.

"Enough. We're dealing with it," Vanessa cut through the other woman's self validation. She went into the kitchen and started coffee -- knowing that would be on Brass's list of priorities. Then she went to the closet and pulled out a folding table and a chair out so that she could sit by the stage and watch the entire proceedings. One at a time, she called over the kids who had been interviewed, and asked them what had happened. Then she talked to Diana extensively, comparing what the woman said to her notes. Luckily, Diana was just devious enough to eavesdrop at the kitchen door while the officer had questioned the kids. Vanessa couldn't repress a chuckle at that.

"I didn't like the look of him," Diana said in her heavily accented English, lifting her chin defiantly.

Vanessa wasn't satisfied. Yeah, there were bad cops. She knew that. But this guy...there was something else going on. Something just told her. She decided that she had to get to the 'why' of his behavior, rather than just reacting to him.

She called home again. "What can you tell me about an Officer Furmansky?" she asked Gil when he picked up.

"Why?" he sounded perplexed.

"Because. He's been down here harassing my kids," she told him. "He went a little too far and I called Brass down here, as his superior officer, to help sort things out."

"That may have been a bad move," Gil said. "He doesn't take well to authority. He doesn't take well to much of anyone, from what I've noticed. He and I had some trouble a couple years back. He is very 'black and white.'"

"I warned him twice that if he didn't remove himself from my building, and stop questioning the kids here about Ricky, without an advocate present, that I would call his superior officer. He thought I was bluffing. Not my problem," Vanessa felt snippy.

"That's all well and good, Vanessa, but he might just be more determined to find out how to make the story fit now. I have to take back what I said. He doesn't have a problem with structure and authority so much as anyone who questions him or his actions."

"Well, he got completely outta hand with Troy. I know Troy is still kind of a punk, but when Jim got here, we heard yelling, and ran in and he had the kid up against the wall. Even _if_ he got smart, there's no call for that," she was feeling very snippy. "You had problems with him?"

"Yeah. Its in the past. I wouldn't go tossing my name around, though."

"Oh, well. Certainly sounds like its resolved," her tone was sarcastic. "He didn't know what to make of it when I got a hold of Jim at home," she laughed a little. "Gil, this guy has problems. Is this gonna undermine everything I want to do with the law enforcement in this community?" her voice was quiet, unsure.

"I don't know," she could almost see him pinching the bridge of his nose as he thought about it.

Then she overheard Brass talking to Furmansky, "listen to me, man. You don't want to tangle with her. She knows what she's doing. Its nothing against you, but you don't have what it takes to win this one. We have some processing to do yet on the mugging, so just take it easy," he was trying to calm the man down without coddling him. "What are you doing working this anyhow? You shouldn't be on shift for another few hours, either."

"Couldn't sleep." Furmansky replied simply.

Vanessa returned to the phone, "I think I gotta go, Gil. I gotta get something resolved here, or I'm gonna have to be here 'round the clock."

She stifled a yawn as she stepped over to Brass and Furmansky. She looked pointedly at Brass, "can they leave yet?" she asked, indicating the juvenile line up who were still dutifully bent over their school books. Whether or not they were really studying was anyone's guess.

Brass nodded briefly, and Vanessa turned toward the group and told them they were free to go. The scrambling exodus of teenagers was impressive. Brass turned around and called for her, "we're going to take this discussion down to the station, anyway."

Vanessa approached them again, "wait right there," she started. "I need some assurance that I'm not going to have any more problems here." She was tired and her temper was starting to wear thin again. "Otherwise I'm gonna be here twenty-four-seven."

Brass took her aside, "I don't think he'll be back out here on this one. I've been explaining to him that this is the point where he has to leave it to the investigators. He really had no business being out here at all. I just hope that no one wants to file a complaint over that incident with the older kid," the Captain shook his head. "He _means_ well..." he didn't finish.

"I can see that. I never said the guy was evil. I just think he's a little unbalanced. I think he honestly believes he's handling things as best he can. And maybe he is. But somewhere in the middle things, he lost sight of the scope of his duties," Vanessa summarized. She continued, dropping her voice a few more degrees, "Gil told me he had trouble with this guy."

"A couple times, as a matter of fact. Same kind of deal. Anytime someone questions anything, Furmansky gets his feathers ruffled. Another complaint and I'm gonna have to suspend the guy."

"Let me talk to Troy and his folks before we get to that stage. I'm reasonably sure Troy probably popped off at him -- he's kind of a hot head like that. Granted a public servant should be professional enough to cope with that without resorting to violence. But Troy isn't totally blameless here." Vanessa told him.

Brass just nodded. "Go on home for a little while. I have this," he shooed her out the door. It was already eight o'clock -- only four hours before she had to be back. If anyone was even there tonight. With that thought, she turned to Diana.

"What are the odds anyone is gonna come here tonight after this? You know those kids have told everyone by now," she reasoned.

"I don't know," the other woman shook her head, her long black hair swaying in time with her movement. "It'll either be packed, or no one will show."

"Maybe I should schedule a town hall meeting in a couple days to discuss what happened," Vanessa mused.

The idea had potential. In the end, she told Diana she'd be there at midnight, as usual, and if she didn't see anyone by two in the morning, she'd head home.

Promptly at midnight, she stepped into an empty building. She sat at the table that served as her desk, jotting down ideas for the town hall meeting, until she dozed off.

"_Hola,_" said a voice from the doorway. It was Monty, supposed to take over for her in the morning. Did that mean it was morning? How did that happen? She looked around the room, confused at the sunlight that was streaming in through the windows, highlighting swirling dust motes in its path.

She sat up quickly and tried to look alert, even though the seam of her jacket had left its imprint on her cheek. "Hi there," she yawned.

He couldn't quite disguise his humor. "Slow night?" he asked in heavily accented English.

"You could say that. What's the gossip in the neighborhood?" she asked.

He knew what she was referring to and his features quickly clouded over. "It isn't good. People are wondering if this place is going to be safe. Bad enough they deal with bad cops outside, ya know?"

"Yeah," Vanessa put her head in her hands. "If I hold a meeting, do you think people will come?"

Monty shrugged. She took that as a 'no' that he was trying to soften for her.

"Then it looks like I'm back to canvassing," she muttered, standing and stretching. "You gonna be okay here?" In response to his nod, she continued, "I think I'm gonna go home...I gotta figure this out. Call if anything -- and I mean anything -- happens."

He moved to take her place at the desk and they said their goodbyes, and she headed out to her car. Something was...off. She looked at the car, head cocked to one side. When she shifted her perspective, the car leveled out. Immediately she looked at the tires and saw that the two on the passenger side had been slashed. There was a note under her windshield wiper. Pulling it free, she opened the scrap of common notebook paper:

"If we'd known you were so friendly with pigs, we'd never have let you in,"

was all it said. She sat down on the hood with the note in her hands. She looked up at the early morning sky, powder blue and, for the time being, fresh, and wondered about God's sense of humor. Then she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed home.

"Hello," it was Aaron.

"That was quick. Waiting to hear from someone?" she teased, in spite of herself.

"Yeah. I'm hoping to hear from that jackass at UNLV. What's up?"

"My 'fly' ride seems to have been compromised. I need a lift, I guess," she hated having to ask for anything.

She heard something muffle the phone, and then Aaron talking to someone in the background. "...something's wrong with her car. Do you wanna go after her or should I?"

Then the voice changed -- it was Gil. "What happened?"

"I've got two flat tires. I think you know what the odds of that happening spontaneously would be," she grumbled.

"I'll be right out," was all he said in reply before the line went dead. All she had to do was wait, so she sat on the hood of the car, taking in some sunshine. She'd almost dozed off again, with her arm slung over her eyes to provide some darkness, when she felt more than heard someone next to her.

She slowly moved her arm a little, allowing herself a peek at who her companion might be. "What's this?" he asked, looking at the piece of paper in her hand.

"Oh, that? That's nothing. Just a note from a concerned citizen," she said sarcastically.

She felt the paper leaving her hand and knew he was reading it. "You're going to report this, right?" he asked, sounding grouchy.

"Actually, I wasn't." She was serious.

"I told you it was dangerous to work down here. Especially at night," he admonished.

"You know, if I'd thought this was going to turn into a lecture, I'd have walked," she snipped at him. "I'm tired, I'm irritated, and I want to spend the rest of the day in bed."

"So you're just going to what. Replace the tires? Forget it happened? This is close to a threat, Vanessa."

She rolled her eyes hard under her arm before she replied. "That's pretty much it," she told him, exasperation growing in her voice. "What are you gonna do about it?"

"I can't report it myself, so I guess nothing," his tone hadn't lightened appreciably.

"Other than stand there and bitch at me all morning? That might be a plan," she couldn't help the dig.

She could sense some sort of indecision in him as he looked at her intently. "What?" she snapped, removing her arm to look him in the eye.

Without a word of warning he reached over to her and picked her up, carrying her to the SUV. He'd apparently deemed the move safe with a minimum of vehicle and foot traffic in the area.

"Just who the hell do you think you are? John Wayne? Its the car that can't move, not me," she was shouting.

He deposited her unceremoniously in the passenger seat, taking care to set the child lock. Then he got in himself.

"That was dirty," she shot him a look.

He was silent as he started the car and backed out of the parking space, starting down the road toward home.

"Fine. Be that way, big guy. Now you're the strong, silent type. I get it. I thought we had this discussion once already, by the way."

There was still anger in his eyes when he looked over at her. "What if next time it isn't just the tires?"

"You think they'll pocket my distributor cap, too?" she returned, not thinking.

He actually raised his voice. She was shocked. "Yeah. I'd spend a thousand sleepless nights over a piece of metal. What if it was you, not the tires?"

"So what?" She fired back. Almost as soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she could suck them back.

His voice went up another notch. "What the hell do you mean, so what? Do you even understand what its taken for me to let someone into my home? Into my _life_? You think I have someone just waiting in the wings to replace you if something happened? Well, I don't," he was shouting at her now. "So what. That's it, huh? I'd hate to think I wasted my energy on someone who could pretend to give a shit, but maybe I have."

At his last words, she found herself getting angry again, "you think I'm capable of pretending to give a shit, after you've seen me pour blood, sweat and tears into other people? I'm a waste of your energy? Well, I'm glad you told me before I went and got all attached."

He was silent, and she could see that he was taking deep breaths, trying to find some peace. Finally, he pulled off to the side of the highway and let his head fall against the back of the seat. "So that's what Cath meant about car fights," he mumbled.

"What?" she snapped, eyes flashing again.

"Nothing," he was speaking at his normal volume, but there was still frustration in his posture and in his voice. Then he turned to look at her, studying her carefully. At first she met his eyes, but then started looking elsewhere in the car, hoping to get out from under his scrutiny. "You don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" she replied, shoulders slumping, finding she no longer had the energy to sustain the argument. "I get that I'm tired. I get that I'm hungry. I get that my car was vandalized and that I may have to start all over with the community center. And, I get that we're arguing about how I should do my job."

His hand reached for hers, and she jumped at the contact. He pulled back a little. "No, you don't," he reached for her again. "This job is a large part of who you are, but is it worth getting hurt? Killed? You don't even carry a weapon. I at least have that -- a chance, if I needed it. Does it ever occur to you that you might get into a situation you couldn't handle?"

"No, that hasn't occurred to me," she replied honestly, carefully studying the vents in front of her. "And I'm not going to carry a gun. That's fine for you, but I won't do it," her voice regained some of its conviction.

"I'm not going to ask you to. I couldn't. I don't want you to think I want you to be something other than you are. But do you understand that..." he broke off for a moment, trying to choose his words.

"That what?"

"That I don't want you to get hurt. Or worse. I let you in and I don't know if I can undo that this time." There was sadness in his voice.

He had always been able to surprise her. No mean feat, for anyone. But she found herself gaping at him in shock. "Huh?" she said, feeling stupid even as it left her throat.

He grasped her hand and pulled her closer to him, so that she was leaning over the console. "I love you," he said, simply. The fingers on his other hand strayed over her cheek and into her hair.

The look on his face sucked the breath from her. She felt her heart pounding and her chest constricting as she realized what he meant by that. "What's so hard to grasp about that?" he asked, bemused by her expression.

"Lots of stuff," her voice came out in a very un-Vanessa-like squeak. Before she could force anymore words past her throat, he leaned in and kissed her. His touch was light, but still sent shivers through her. When he broke away, she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him. "I love you, too. And I worry about you. I'm getting too old for this shit," she forced a dry chuckle past her lips.

"For what shit?" he asked softly, his lips close to her ear.

"First of all, for this whole arguing like a couple teenagers in heat nonsense," she said wryly. "If something happened to you," she shook her head, trying to find the words, without sounding trite or maudlin, "I couldn't start over. Not with someone else. It takes too damn much to get close to someone. I'm just not that resilient when it comes to relationships like this."

He put an arm around her shoulders and helped her pull herself over the console to curl up with him in the driver's seat. "You ruined me," she teased lightly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

"No one else would ever compare to you," she said, not caring if she sounded sappy as she held on to him and looked up into his eyes. "I'm sorry," she almost whispered. "That I didn't understand better. I still don't see any sense in reporting it, though. Not like they'll catch whoever did it, and I don't want a report for the area," she frowned, her thoughts going back to the morass of trouble surrounding her job.

"Hey," he stopped her, "stop that. Let it go for a while," he encouraged her by kissing her again, pulling her into his arms. She felt his lips curl into a smile and reluctantly pulled back a little, her eyes questioning. "Well, why should you think about work when you should be thinking about make-up sex?" His eyes, no longer holding any hint of the anger and frustration they had earlier, only twinkled with a smile.

His humor was contagious, and she found herself smiling back. "Hmmm. You mean there's an alternative to thinking about work?"

"Sometimes," he said.

She pursed her lips as if deep in thought. "Where do I sign up?" she grinned.

"Right here," his voice was all it took to get her heated up. That and the way his arms went around her a little more protectively, and the way his lips met hers, and the feel of his hair in her fingers.

"In the car?" she asked, a little shocked.

"What. You never went parking?"

"No. I didn't. I never got asked out anywhere in High School. And most of college for that matter. I repeat, _in the car_?"

"Wellll," he drew the word out with a smile, "its not like we'll have much privacy at home."

"Yeah, but on the side of the highway? What if some cop thinks we're stranded or something and we get caught?" she asked, suddenly full of nervous laughter. "Besides, wouldn't this be kinda like doing it on one of the layout tables at the lab? I mean, its the company car and all that."

"Don't think that bit with the tables never occurred to me," again, she found herself shocked. He was being absolutely lascivious. And she found that she liked it. Who was she kidding, she thought it was pretty hot.

"Anything else I should know about?" she asked him. "Any fantasies I could actually get away with indulging you in?"

"All over the lab; in closets. In the break room. In my office. On the desk," between each he placed kisses on her neck, and her pulse was racing. She couldn't believe she was actually going to have sex in a car, but she was a goner. She consoled herself with the idea that it was all his fault.

She made one last, token, attempt at propriety. "Gil," her voice dropped as she tried to make herself seem as serious as possible. Problem was, she was still smiling. "We really should --"

His lips cut off the rest of the sentence, moving against hers seductively, solid yet soft and slow. His tongue sought her lips, taking small, light tastes of her mouth. She felt her bones melt under his attentions. _Sex in the company car...what the hell. Ya only live once...at least the windows are tinted..._were her last coherent thoughts as the kiss deepened. His hands were roaming over her body, pulling her against him, brushing her shoulders, dipping down to explore the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips.

Her own hands were hardly still. They ran up his chest and back down again, toying with the buttons on his shirt before undoing them with unsteady fingers. She needed to feel his skin, it was almost a compulsion; he was warmth and solid muscle and smooth skin that intoxicated her.

With one hand, he reached down and reclined the seat, not even breaking their kiss to do it. Next thing she knew, that same hand was untucking her tee shirt and slipping underneath. His touch sent an almost electric jolt through her, and she pressed herself into him harder, pulling his tongue into her mouth and caressing it with her own, savoring the taste of him and his closeness.

He shifted in the seat a little, a movement which allowed her leg to slide between his, and she was shocked (damn, what was that, the fifth time that day?) when she felt how aroused he was. The contact between her body and his caused him to moan under his breath and finally pull away from her lips. She looked down and noticed a small patch of dampness forming on the front of his pants.

His gaze followed hers, and he flushed slightly, smiling at her. "We should do something about that," she noted, her fingers feeling more nimble as they unbuttoned the slacks and pulled the zipper, then slid the garment away from his body. "My," she smiled. "You were in a hurry to leave the house. You didn't even put on underwear. I could get to like this easy access stuff," she tentatively glanced at him through her lashes. He was absolutely heart-stopping, laying out in the car seat before her, still blushing a little, hair a little tousled. His breath was coming faster, and his eyes communicated his desire more clearly than words.

She pulled her tee shirt off over her head and flung it in the passenger seat, following it with her bra. The ache that was building in her for him was immense, and it was more than just the need for physical release. Somewhere in the course of the argument, and the making out, she found herself fully surrendering herself to him. It was a foreign feeling -- she'd never done that with anyone else before. She'd always kept a little piece of herself locked away, no matter how close she got, no matter what she was doing. Now, she felt the walls she'd built around that part of herself dissolving for him as he looked at her with the same sense of surrender that she was contending with. Her eyes passed over his body slowly, trying to memorize every line and detail of him. While she was still sitting up, she quickly stripped off her jeans and underwear, then let herself sink into him, relishing the feel of skin on skin.

Her hands moved to his erection, first brushing over him, then, more assertively, wrapping her fingers around him and stroking slowly. Her lips moved over his stomach, chest and neck, reverently. She savored the texture of his skin under her tongue and the way the taste of him lingered. She stopped when she felt his heart beat under her lips, steady and fast, and turned her head to let her cheek rest against the spot for a moment before returning to her lingering path that was slowly winding up to his neck, his ears, his face and his lips again.

His hips pushed into her hand and his back arched. She increased the pressure but slowed her rhythm, wanting to draw the moment out despite the fact that they were in public, technically. Adding a twist on the upward stroke, she was satisfied to hear a full throated moan escape his lips.

Her head sank into his shoulder, his arousal making her own breath more rapid. She shifted so that she was straddling his hips, but continued to stroke, relishing the weight of him in her hand, the way his eyes had slipped shut in abandon, the small noises that interspersed the more heady moans coming from him.

She was so absorbed in pleasing him that she wasn't even prepared for the almost violent shudder that passed through her when his hands reached for her hips, first pulling her over him, then one hand slipping in front to find her clit, rubbing her with the tips of his fingers.

Every muscle in her body jumped to attention as she buried her face in his shoulder and cried out. Her voice was beyond her control, telling him over and over that she loved him and wanted him, and only him. Slowly, she felt the fingers slip back and the into her center, his thumb continuing the ministrations he had begun on her clit. He found her g spot and her body tensed again, her hand going limp and still on his shaft as he stole her concentration. Two fingers, stroking her from the inside out, leaving her burning with a desire she didn't even know she was capable of, then a third finger, filling her. If she'd been cognitive, she would never have recognized the guttural moan that came from her as her own voice.

He was still impossibly hard, resting against her now useless hand. She thought she would snap if he teased her much longer, and desperately ground her hips into his, letting her hot, wet center slide over him. His back arched and his fingers left a momentary void in her as he pushed himself into her.

At first, they moved together slowly; she was still laying against him, straddling his hips, using the muscles of her legs to move against him. The amount of contact between them, skin slipping against skin, was going to push him quickly to climax. More quickly than he would have liked, he found himself pumping into her fast and harder, her hips grinding into his, increasing the impact of their thrusts.

Without warning, she found her orgasm rippling through her; her eyes flew open as she cried out for him, pushing her body down on his, holding him inside her with clenched muscles. He was staring at her with rapt adoration as her hips bucked into his faster and faster, demanding more of him, demanding his own orgasm. It was only moments before his eyes slipped shut again and he obliged, spilling himself hot and hard into her depths, her now quivering, almost spent muscles, spasming around him.

She felt like it would go on forever; she'd never come so slow and hard in her life, no one before had been able to do to her what he did. Finally, the tension slipped out of her body, seemingly draining from her head out through her feet and hands, as she collapsed against him, working to catch her breath.

Coming back to her own body at last, she felt him leave her, and moaned in spite of herself. Slowly lifting herself from him, she slipped her jeans back on, leaving off the underwear since she was planning on showering once they reached home. Those she wadded up and stuffed in her pocket, taking similar action with her bra, slinging her shirt over her head.

She slipped back into his lap as he straightened the seat, lips caressing his neck again while her hands lovingly restored the buttons on his shirt to their proper places. "I love you," she breathed into his ear. Her arms wound around his neck and she just sat there, clinging to him.

They had almost dozed off when there was a tap on the window. Vanessa found herself jerked awake for the second time that day as the window rolled down and they found themselves staring an officer in the face.

She hid her blush by turning her face into his neck, mumbling, "I told you we'd get busted."

"Is there something we can do for you?" Gil asked simply. For a man who's pants were still hanging around his hips, a fact that was barely hidden by her position sitting in his lap, he was amazingly calm.

"Oh...I...uh..." the officer stammered a little. "I thought this was some kind of truant call or something. Kids parked on the side of the road. You know," he coughed a little to hide his discomfort, then recovered. "What are you folks doing out here?"

"She had a rough morning at work, is all. We'll be on our way," Gil assured him smoothly.

"I'll need to see license and registration first," the officer said, trying to look official. Under his sunglasses and hat, Vanessa could tell he was just a kid, himself.

Utterly unfazed, he produced the necessary documentation, and noting his professional ID along side his driver's license, the officer became flustered again and sent them on their way.

Vanessa immediately headed to the shower when they walked in the door, barely pausing to say hello to the three family members assembled in the living room. The hot water hitting her back worked out some of the kinks and lulled her, pushing her mind far away from thoughts of work. Instead, she smiled contentedly, wrapping herself in the lingering afterglow of "make up sex."

She laid down in bed, and finding Gil already stretched out under the covers, curled up next to him and fell into blissful slumber.

**Chapter Nineteen: Routine**

The alarm went off and she rolled over and smacked the snooze, immediately seizing the borrowed time to snuggle. Having second thoughts, she turned back to the clock and turned the alarm off. It didn't seem to have had any effect on Gil's sleep, and she would prefer to keep it that way. Soon enough, he would have to go back to work, double shifts, sometimes triples, buried in paperwork, leading the team...in a word: stress.

Instead, she curled her body around his, relishing his warmth, and sighed. She was absolutely content, and the feeling was losing its alien quality slowly but surely. She still had to figure out what she was going to do about her car and the community center, but most of that seemed to be very far away. Something she could deal with just as easily later.

Her attention homed back in on the man sleeping next to her when she felt him shift a little and take a deep breath. Seeing his half open eyes, she put her arms around his shoulders as best she could and pulled herself to him, reaching up to kiss his neck and jaw. "Hey there," she mumbled in his ear.

"Hey, yourself," he echoed, wrapping his arms around her frame.

"Do we have to get up?" she almost pouted.

"Unless you want Ruth in here checking your temperature, we probably should," she noted a distinct hint of reluctance in his voice.

She grumbled and reached up to kiss him, pulling him over her. "You know," she said between kisses, "under Jewish law,"

He felt the smile pulling at her lips and broke away to look at her. She wasn't just smiling. There was a smirk on her face; an expression that left him intrigued. "Yes?" he arched an eyebrow when she hesitated.

"Under Jewish law," she continued, "the husband is obligated to provide sex whenever the wife asks for it."

"Well, then its a good thing we aren't married, isn't it?" he teased, "I'm not sure I could keep up with that."

"You plannin' on going somewhere else?" she asked, still smirking.

He looked like he was going to continue the joke for a second, then his hand ran through her tangled hair and he leaned down for another lingering kiss before he replied, "no."

His serious tone did little to wipe the smile off her face. It was just the answer she needed. "Well, good."

True to prediction, however, there was a knock at the door, somehow distinctive from Eleanor's. There would be no ten-count this time. Instead, he rolled over, pulling her with him. "Yeah?" he answered.

Ruth opened the door a crack, peeking inside. "Oh, good, you're awake," she opened the door some more, oblivious to the snuggling couple in the bed. "You should come out and get a late lunch," she looked at Vanessa, "how long since you ate?"

Vanessa shrugged, which was obviously not an acceptable answer. "Well, then its high time you did, then. Get cleaned up. I think we're having sandwiches. Aaron should be back any time now. He's going to need to find a job and go looking for an apartment if this goes well," she kept up a running commentary as she bustled around the room, picking up clothes and putting them in the hamper, seemingly falling into an old habit. "Come on," she cajoled, looking back up at them, clothes in hand. "What's the matter with you two?"

Her eyes strayed to the clothes in her hand and her eyes lit with a slight smile. "Ah," she nodded. "Why didn't you tell me you needed some time to yourselves?"

Gil just shrugged as she stepped out. When she was sure the woman was out of ear shot, Vanessa laid back in the bed and laughed.

She laid in bed and watched appreciatively as he walked to the bathroom for a shower, and eventually gave in to her whim and joined him. He was standing under the spray with his eyes closed, humming softly.

When her arms went around his waist he almost jumped out of his skin, making her laugh. "You should have seen your face!" she gasped, trying to regain her composure.

He looked at her sternly, only making her laugh harder. She stepped beside him, "quit hogging the water," she laughed as he stepped out of the way, letting the hot water soak her hair before she picked up the shampoo with a toss.

"You know, I had the shower first," he told her. He was still trying to look gruff, but the smile was starting in his eyes.

She looked at him, absolutely serious, "but Gil, think of the environment. We're conserving water!"

"You're telling me that's your only motivation here," he looked at her skeptically.

"Yeah. That and you looked so enticing walking in here. I'm a weak woman, Gil. I can't help myself," she replied, rinsing her hair, picking up the shower gel, and ducking out from under the shower head so that he could continue.

"I don't believe it for a second," he snagged his own bottle of shower gel. "You are the most stubborn, tenacious woman I've ever met. You can too help yourself."

"Nope," she reached down to lather a leg, wondering briefly if she should take the time to shave, then deciding against it since the logistics of two people in a shower was probably enough to work around. "Its all your fault. You swept me off my feet."

He laughed at her, rinsing quickly so that she could move back under the water. The steam smelled like orchids now, like her, and he sighed contentedly. He pulled his mind away from daydreaming with a jolt and stepped out, grabbing a towel. By now, he had her pattern down to a science (as he did so many other things); he reached into a drawer and pulled out a light colored towel and a dark colored towel. He smiled, thinking of the evening she had explained her 'system,' to him. She showered for efficiency, especially if she showered early. She kept a light colored towel -- preferably white -- out for her face and hair, and a dark colored one for the rest of her. "That way I'm not sticking my face in a towel that I used on my ass," she'd told him bluntly, and he'd laughed until his sides hurt. She'd gone further to explain that, when she used to dye her hair, she'd wanted a towel she could bleach for her hair in case it hadn't been rinsed quite thoroughly enough. Now that it was going silver in places, she'd stopped that practice, but the habit with the towels had stuck.

He wondered if she would ever cease to fascinate him -- all the tiny facets of her personality, her past, the reasons behind her habits, the things that interested her. It seemed like no matter what topic he brought up, she was typically knowledgeable enough to carry on a discussion. And when she lacked knowledge, she was greedy to learn. She had an ability to make intuitive leaps with scraps of information that occasionally left him openly baffled. She could relate the inner workings of an ant colony to social systems, and further to political uprisings.

He'd casually taken to hunting down some of the journal articles she'd had published and found that she was, indeed, quite the radical as far as many academics were considered. He was in the middle of a particularly interesting one about the influence of religion on the civil rights movement.

"Hey," her voice pulled him back to the present. He handed her the light colored towel and watched appreciatively as she bent forward to wrap her hair. Another habit. Twist the hair in the towel clockwise, then counter clockwise. Stand up and tuck the ends of the towel under the base of the turban she'd made. Her motions were fluid and energetic. She reached for the dark blue towel and proceeded to dry off. "What are you thinking about so hard? Look, you fogged up the mirror," she teased.

"You," he said, stepping closer to her and wrapping his arms around her, resting them on the swell of her hips.

"Wow. Didn't think I was that complicated."

"Well, you are," he kissed her forehead, smiling.

"My humblest apologies," she smiled back.


	5. Part 5

**Author's Note: thanks for waiting patiently. I wasn't sure folks were reading at this site, and with the school year, things have gotten back into high gear. I mentioned this as something of a grounds for experiment, and I try some shifting perspective stuff in this one. **

**Part Five**

**Chapter Twenty: Called Out**

The call came at three in the morning, yanking Vanessa out of the early stages of grateful slumber.

"Mmmph," she groaned into the receiver.

"Vanessa Goldman?" an unfamiliar voice asked.

"Yeah," she grunted, rubbing her eyes.

"You're on our list of contacts for emergency responders," the female voice started.

While full alertness was still a ways off, she definitely had Vanessa's attention. "Yeah."

"There's been a landslide in Elko County. We're pulling in all the volunteers we can. Can you get here?" the faceless voice asked.

"Yeah," she felt like a broken record. "Where do you need me?"

"There's a town called Jackpot in the southern end of the county. We've evacuated the northern part of the town, but its going to get worse before it gets better. The river is still rising. We've been sandbagging around the clock..." there was a barely concealed frantic quality to the voice.

"Who do I contact?"

"Sheriff Alan Brooks. My husband," she went on breathlessly. "I can't believe you're willing to come all the way from Henderson. I can hardly get any help locally..."

"Its okay. I'll throw some stuff in a suitcase and head up there. Here's my cell number," she rattled it off while the woman on the other end scribbled, then did some scribbling of her own as the woman gave her contact information.

She hung up and threw herself in the shower -- hard telling when she'd get another decent one, grabbed a duffel bag and threw the necessities in it, and hopped in her car.

Her first stop was at the lab. She walked through the double doors and received a cheerful wave from Judy at the reception desk. "You're here to see Grissom?" she asked.

"Yeah. I need some geographical assistance," she told the woman with a smile.

"I think he might be visiting Dr. Robbins, but he should be back soon. You can go ahead and wait outside his office or in the break room. I heard that Greg made a pot of coffee before he took off," Judy told her.

"Thanks. I'll do that," she headed toward her old 'office,' visitor tag clipped to her tee shirt.

She could tell immediately by the smell that the coffee was, indeed, from Greg's secret stash and obliged herself to a cup without even the slightest shade of remorse. Seating herself at the table, she leafed through a newspaper someone had left behind, biding her time until Gil got back from the coroner's office.

"Hey, what are you doing here?"

She turned in her seat and smiled at Brass, who was just walking in with a bag of takeout. "Waiting on Gil," she sighed and rolled her eyes dramatically. "As always."

"Is this seat taken?" he asked, indicating the chair across from her where she had propped up her feet.

"I suppose not," she sat up. "So what's been going on?"

"People are still just as stupid and crazy as they ever were. Same shit, different day. Thanks for the scalloped potatoes you sent over, by the way. Crew loved them."

She smiled at the compliment, "have to keep Las Vegas' finest well fed," she laughed. "And you get pretty good at making them when you practically live on them for a while because you can't afford much else."

"So, what has you looking for Gil at," he looked at his watch as he opened a container that held a greasy cheeseburger, "four in the morning?"

"Well, it looks like I'm being called out of town for a couple weeks. But first I need some geographical advice," she answered.

"What's going on? Is everything okay?" Experience had told her that although the Captain maintained a gruff exterior, he was as soft as they got.

"There's been a landslide up in Elko County. I got the call about an hour ago, and they need volunteers to take care of injuries and help with further evacuation," she looked at her notes, "Jackpot. That's the name of the town."

"He's not gonna like that," Jim said, frowning at her over his burger.

"He doesn't have to like it. If they're calling outside of their own county for help, then they need it bad, and I'm trained to provide it. I just need to know how to get there," Vanessa told him, chin squared stubbornly.

"He's still not gonna like it," Jim smirked. "Which means he'll probably be a pain in the ass for the rest of us."

"That's different from normal _how_?" Vanessa teased.

"Okay. More of a pain in the ass. Point taken," Jim nodded in agreement. "Ecklie should be on nights next week if he's behaving himself. Maybe Grissom will be content to take it out on him."

Vanessa snorted laughter. "Well, if its any comfort to you, I'm likely to be spending the next two weeks at least up to my ankles in mud and God only knows what else. I probably won't be any picnic to deal with, either."

"No..." Jim looked thoughtful, "that doesn't help. I think he had a case up there a while back, though. Its pretty," he hesitated, "rustic."

"Wow, Jim. Tact. Didn't know you had it in ya," she laughed at him, catching his meaning all too clearly. "You suppose they have indoor plumbing?" Her tone still teasing.

"I don't know. Do outhouses count?"

"No."

In the middle of the conversation, Gil walked into the room, looking puzzled. "What are you doing here?"

"Everyone's asking me that. Is it against the rules for me to drop by, maybe water the plants?" she joked.

"I suppose not," he acknowledged.

Brass, looking uncomfortable, put half his dinner back into the container and stood up, "I think I'll leave you two alone now. Young lovers and all that."

"Chicken," Vanessa couldn't help getting one last dig.

"Prudent," he shot back as he exited the room.

"What was that about?" Gil looked concerned now.

Now that the time had come to tell him, she found herself dreading it. She took a deep breath and rattled it off in one quick statement. "I gotta head up to a place called Jackpot to help deal with a landslide situation."

"When?"

"As soon as possible. The woman I talked to sounded pretty urgent. I guess they're having trouble pulling in volunteers," she told him, looking at her feet at the last. This sucked. "The rain still hasn't let up and they've evacuated part of the town already. Pretty soon they'll have to move everyone."

He leaned against the counter and was silent for a few minutes, which sucked even worse. It seemed like the air around her was dead. Finally, she continued, "I don't know how to get there, I don't know anything about anything outside this area. I need help," she told him. "I don't want to leave. I don't like leaving. But I have to," she looked at him, hoping to see that he understood.

"How long?" he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Probably two weeks. Not less than that," the butterflies in her stomach were getting worse rather than better as she told him. "Dammit, Gil, this isn't easy for me."

He stepped away from the counter and pulled her into his arms. "I know," he told her, his voice surprisingly steady. "You don't think you're driving up there in your car, do you?"

"Yeah, why? It made it out here, after all," she replied, resting her head on his chest and wrapping her arms around his waist.

"Because, you could destroy the engine on those roads."

"Well, I don't think I really have any other options," she told him, wondering if he was trying to talk her out of it.

"I could take you," he said. "If you can wait an hour or so. There's no way I'm going to get finger print results before the end of shift, anyhow. They can live without me for a couple hours."

The butterflies evaporated as she looked into his eyes. "Seriously?"

"Why not? You look tired. Why don't you curl up on the couch in my office while I wrap a few things up. Then we can go."

He followed her back to the town house so that she could drop off her car. The butterflies had returned with a vengeance. Time alternately felt like it was speeding up and slowing down. Her nap, for instance, had passed in what seemed like a second. Unloading her car and putting her duffel bag into the SUV had seemed to take forever. She hoped once she got there she'd be too busy to think about how far away she was from him.

At the last minute, she dodged into the house to look for her fist aid kit. She'd packed her basic one, plus some outdoor gear, but she thought she would feel more prepared if she had the more advanced supplies. She hadn't even heard him follow her inside, and jumped when she felt his arms on her shoulders.

When she turned to look at him from her position, squatting in front of the coat closet, he pulled her up and turned her to face him. His eyes regarded her intensely, as if he were trying to memorize her. Her arms found their way around his neck, resting on his shoulders, and neither of them closed their eyes until the last split second before his lips were on hers. Her breath stopped in her chest and her heart skipped a beat when she felt his tongue against her lips, seeking the inside of her mouth. She was willing to grant him anything he wanted.

The kiss lingered, and his arms tightened around her waist, pressing her into his body. His hands were moving over her body delicately, as if she were made of glass. "You have to do this, don't you?" he asked, voice tinged with sadness.

"You didn't hear the woman on the phone. They're in trouble up there. I can't not go," she replied quietly. "Brass is afraid you're going to be a total pain in the ass while I'm gone." She couldn't resist a small smirk.

"He's probably right," his lips met hers again. "I've gotten kind of used to having you here."

"Well, good," she returned the kiss, letting it deepen of its own accord. When he pulled away, his hands caught hers and she let herself be led back to the bedroom without protest. All the way down the hall, he pressed kisses into her fingers, the backs of her hands, her palms and her wrists. Then, in the doorway to the bedroom, his hands went around her waist again, lifting her. Her legs found their way around his waist, and she clung to him as he kissed her neck.

The feel of his tongue on her skin made her gasp and shivers run through her body. She felt the mattress pressing into her back as he leaned over her, lips wandering up to her jaw and the back of her ear. Her legs still wrapped around him, she tried to pull him down on top of her, but his hands were working at the button of her jeans, sliding the zipper down, and then pulling them and her panties from her legs, all at once. Then his hands were back at her waist, lifting her tee shirt up, running over her breasts, making her want him. She lifted herself off the bed far enough for him to pull her shirt off.

When her hands went to his own shirt, he caught them in his, holding them still. She relented and watched with unabashed lust as he discarded his own clothes as quickly as he had hers, then laid down next to her, reaching for her once again to pull her into a kiss, this one more demanding. His tongue was playing over her lips as his hands ghosted over every inch of her skin.

The taste of him affected her like a drug. She let her legs tangle into his, and her arms pulled him further on top of her, craving the solid feel of his weight above her, the way his hips fit between her legs, like he had been molded to her. She'd never been with anyone she had trouble walking away from temporarily before, and no matter how her mind railed that it was only two weeks, and that she would see him again, she was still muddled by the desire to make love, be made love to, and to make sure he knew how deeply her feelings for him ran. Her lips parted and her tongue guided his into her mouth, caressing his delicately, trying to burn every feeling of him into her memory. She was plagued by a reluctance to leave his side, to sleep in a bed by herself. A small voice in the back of her mind questioned that she had grown dependent on him. His soothing presence. His confidence in her when her own ebbed low. The way he smelled. The things she saw in him that so few other people did. The bright smile when they shared a joke. The way he sang in the shower. The way the curls of his hair stuck out in all directions when he woke up, sandy-eyed and perfectly adorable.

Images and sensory memory tumbled over her consciousness and she broke away from the kiss suddenly. She struggled to catch her breath, feeling a pang of guilt as confusion and concern fell over his face. Her arms ran around his neck, fingers twining into his hair, "I need you, Gil." It was all she had voice to tell him at the moment.

His expression became one of relief and his lips quirked in a half smile, "in a hurry?"

"No, Gil. I don't want to leave. I don't want to be away from you. Not even for a day. I love you. I want to make sure you know that. That I'll be missing how you feel next to me in bed. And that I'll probably fix two cups of coffee out of pure habit..." she faltered briefly. "I'll even miss Edna and Rex and Charlie," she laughed a little, referring to the cockroaches. "Never thought I'd say _that_ when we started spending our time together. I guess I just can't imagine having a life that you and the 'guys' are in."

He buried his face in her neck, and she felt his lips move against her skin, "I love you," his voice barely reached her ears. She could feel his lips forming the words between kisses, against her neck over and over, to her ear, over her jaw, and finally claiming hers, pressing into them with an urgency that hadn't been a part of earlier displays of affection. She had felt him go from throbbing to fully hardened against her leg, and the evidence of his arousal left her feeling flushed and aching for him.

**/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\**

His hand had found her breast, and was alternately massaging it and caressing her nipple. He groaned when she arched into him, wanting him to touch her more, to follow where his desires took him, and find his fantasies with her body. He held her breast in his fingers as his lips broke from hers, and his tongue wrapped itself around the nipple, slowly pulling it into his mouth where his warmth and touch felt like decadent electricity to her nerves. Her last cognitive capabilities left her with a moan as he sucked at her flesh, his hands moved to caress her thighs, teasing her by letting one finger trace up the insides of her legs, agonizingly close to her center.

Her hips came off the bed as she arched her back into him again. "Oh God," she was panting. "Gil...I want you," her voice was low, almost gravelly.

The finger teased her again, brushing against the curly hair between her legs as he shifted his attentions to her other breast. He continued his lingering pace, although the urgency between them would not let them dawdle much longer. With one quick move, he pressed two fingers into her center, stroking the hot, wet skin there. The sudden contact made her gasp. The breath was locked in her lungs for a moment, then left with an explosive cry. His mouth was leaving her breast, tongue making a trail down her stomach to join his fingers, with no hesitation between them.

He held her hips down to the bed with his arms while his tongue worked her clit, and his fingers dipped inside of her, thrilling her from her toes to the roots of her hair when she felt him simultaneously caressing her g-spot in rapid, finger curling strokes, almost tickling, while his lips closed over her clit and he sucked on her gently.

His finger felt the tell-tale twitch that told him she had reached her limit -- all too quickly. He'd wanted to spend hours with her like this; put off the inevitable car trip to Jackpot and the subsequent solitary drive home. When she groaned his name and her fingers dug into his shoulders, his resolve slipped. It never failed to amaze him that she wanted him like this -- seemingly beyond mere physical gratification. She was intensely passionate about everything she touched -- she did nothing halfway. He had been surprised to find that making love could be more than biology after so many years of maintaining his distance from others.

The second he moved, shifting his weight away from her hips momentarily, they bucked into him desperately. His arm slipped under the small of her back, pulling her to him, as he kissed her shoulder, listening to her voice as words spilled from her in no particular order, all communicating desire for him only.

He felt her reach down between their bodies and her fingers wrap around him firmly, stroking him as he repositioned himself, lifting her hips to meet his, relishing the feel of strong legs around his waist, pulling him into her. He felt her pressing the tip of his penis against the opening to her tight, wet depths and met her efforts with a groan that started somewhere at the base of his spine.

It never failed to astonish her that he could so readily relinquish self control with her; he pressed himself further into her, slowly, reveling in the clench of her muscles around him. Unlike the spasmodic contractions of an orgasm, it was pulling him further, encouraging him to bury himself in her. With his arm around her hips, his hand pressed into the soft curving flesh there, he pulled her onto him while pushing in to meet her.

She threw her head back and begged for him. She wanted more -- more of his arms around her, more of his voice in her ears and his lips on her skin, more of him inside her, harder and faster, to know that she gratified his desires. And yet, she knew that the more she had, the sooner she had it, the sooner the moment would be over. She felt perfect when they were like this, as close as two human beings could be. She loved how it chased the world and its problems into a far corner to feel him moving inside her.

He was inside her. His pace was slow and steady, withdrawing almost entirely before thrusting into her again, so fully that she completely enveloped him, the tip of his erection brushing against the very end of her heated center. Usually at this point, he would have closed his eyes and let himself sink into her and the pleasure they derived from each other's bodies, but he watched her this time, committing her to memory.

"Please? Oh God Gil," she panted his name over and over as he withdrew again, maintaining his almost leisurely pace. "I love you," her hips met his thrust, increasing the pressure of the movement, making him groan over her sighs and moans that had become a litany, declaring the depth of her love for him.

He felt the world around them slip a little further from his awareness and unconsciously found himself giving in to the demands that tumbled from her lips. His speed gradually increased, as well as the intensity of his movements. His efforts were answered by a groan, and a smile tugged at the edges of her lips. He found his hold on her hips weakening; and the more he slipped the more he needed to feel her body arching to make contact with his. She slipped from his grasp and he leaned the arm that had cradled her hips on the other side of her shoulders, savoring the feeling of her dancer's legs winding around him tighter, and her hips pressing into him, knowing that the increasingly frantic pace she was setting meant that she was hovering close to the edge of her orgasm.

He wanted to watch her come -- he'd never done that before. His strokes became shorter, deeper, and harder, and the tense-and-release of her muscles around him drove him on, so that he was rocking into her faster, meeting her body's every movement, fulfilling her every demand and desire.

Her hands ran down his back until they rested on his backside, and with an upper body strength neither of them knew she possessed, she pulled him into her, hard. Harder than before. Hard enough to make him grunt and lower his head to her shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut to filter the sensation of it. She smelled amazing. Perfume on her neck -- sandalwood and musk, orchid scented soap, a smell that could only be her. The fresh smell of her shampoo. The feel of her, every inch of her, underneath him, wrapped around him, pulling him into her fiercely. Everything about her in this moment clouded his senses.

She was delirious with him; cradling her, holding her, then his hands in her hair, the smell of his skin, the way he felt against her. Who knew another human being was capable of doing this to her? Not her, that was for sure. She'd never thought anyone else would match her like this. The pressure that had started in the pit of her stomach was now swarming her nervous system, inching its way to the part of the brain that is still controlled by basic urges and the desire for pleasure and gratification. When it finally reached that part, she knew her orgasm would overtake everything else. His attentions, his closeness, had stolen her ability to control the response. Instead, she found herself swept along, body and soul. He was no longer controlling his movements so carefully, her hands drifted to his ass and pulled him into her with more force and speed; he was being swept into the moment, himself. The thought brought a smile to her lips as she mumbled his name between ragged breaths.

"Please, Gil," she repeated, whispering the words into his ear as his head dropped to her shoulder. "Please. Love you. Let me...oh Gil. I need to feel you come," her lips found his temple and pressed a kiss into it. Her back was arching, and she could feel her muscles tightening around him one final time, almost hard enough to still his motion completely, a sustained clench that gripped him and held him inside her. And yet, she could feel a ripple run through him. He was still thrusting into her, although the movements were shortened, his desire now to simply remain buried in her depths until he had run himself dry.

All it took was his desperate cry to send her spinning. His voice in that moment tripped her into ecstasy and her tightly held muscles released and spasmed around him almost explosively. Voluntary muscle control stopped as she pounded her hips into him. It seemed to be following the rhythm of a pulse they shared, a heartbeat that was somehow between them. She heard, faintly, another breathless cry, his voice in her ear telling her that he loved her, and felt the sweet, hot, pulsating spill of him inside her, and reveled in the tightening of his muscles over her as his orgasm claimed him, as hers claimed her.

He managed to open his eyes again to watch her as she came. Her eyes were closed and her head was tilted back into the pillow, her expression one of sheer joy. The lines drawn into her forehead and around her eyes by stress and worry were erased temporarily, and when she opened her eyes to look into his, to lean forward and melt him with a kiss, their gray had become clear and heady like storm clouds chased by sunlight.

She kept her arms and legs wrapped around him, wanting to hang on to their moment for as long as she could. Inevitably, however, her muscles betrayed her and he moved to her side to cradle her body against his, his fingers brushing stray hairs from her face as his lips met hers in short bursts.

**/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\**

"I love you," he told her, meeting her gaze with an intensity that made her stomach flutter.

She snuggled against him, wrapping a leg around his hips so that she could get as close to him as possible. "You're amazing," she replied, still catching her breath. She slipped bonelessly into his embrace. "I don't want to go."

"I know. I don't want you to. But, I can't keep you here, either," his fingers traced her jaw and lifted her face to look into his. "I can't ask you to do anything differently than you would. I love _you_. That means that I love the work you do. The way you are able to reach out to people who need it. While they still need it," he shook his head a little to clear his thoughts. "Too often, I come in when its too late to help the people who really needed it."

She smiled at him, twining her arms around his neck. "So we're yin and yang," she commented. "You could also say you come in when I fail. Each one's work compliments the other..." she leaned into him and stole a kiss. "I love you, too. I love what you do. I think its incredible. And noble," she stifled a giggle, "my prince charming. Willing to risk the thorns to get to the sleeping...well...me."

He chuckled softly, "the sleeping beauty?"

"Well, I don't know if I qualify for either of those. I don't sleep that much, I'm certainly no ravishing beauty, and my mannerisms don't tend to reflect any sort of upper class background. Maybe there's a fairy tale heroine that's a little more plain, who still gets the prince in the end," she suggested.

He inclined his head toward hers, a smile still gracing his features. "You're a beauty to me," he told her.

She found herself blushing like a school girl. "You're completely shameless, but flattery gets you everywhere with me," she reached up for another kiss.

"Well, you are," he argued. "Auburn hair, streaks of silver," his fingers ran through her hair. "Perfectly almond shaped, intelligent gray eyes, long lashes. Lips that beg to be kissed," he followed through on his compliment, "high cheekbones, stubborn chin," his fingers traced her bone structure as he spoke. "Graceful neck and shoulders. All that poise from dance classes. You must be looking in defective mirrors."

She couldn't find a reply. She was actually flustered. This man, this brilliant, compassionate Adonis, saw her like that. She couldn't believe it. She didn't figure she'd ever bring herself to believe it. She'd never been valued for her looks. For her brains, for her determination, for her artistic ability, sure. But not physically -- not like this.

Finally she found her voice, "so I'm not going to come back in two weeks and find that you've gotten bored and turned this place into a swinging bachelor pad?"

She'd meant to tease, but his eyes looked hurt for a split second. "Why would you think that? Do you really think you're so replaceable?"

"Yeah," she snorted a little. "But I oughtta shut up so you don't get wise to that fact."

The hurt lingered there for a moment this time, and it made her heart sink. "You aren't," his voice was quiet but forceful. "There is no one else I would want in my house, in my bed, or in my life. I don't foresee that anyone could ever take your place here. I haven't felt the need to share space with anyone for a long time -- I've told you that. What makes you think that I'm just waiting for you to leave for two weeks so that I can replace you?"

"I just don't see myself as being any sort of special. I can't figure that I'm worth the trouble," she looked into his eyes, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Sometimes I don't know when to just shut up."

"Its alright," he told her, pulling her closer, so that she could feel the comforting vibrations of his voice as much as hear him. "Just know that I wouldn't have let you in if I didn't want to keep you with me." She felt him smile, heard it in his voice. She let her head sink into his chest so that she could feel his heart beating against her cheek and kissed him. "We'll work on the rest of it. Do you have time for a short nap?"

She nodded against him and let her eyes drift shut. He reached over and set the alarm for two hours, dreading hearing it knowing that it would be taking her away from him.

**Chapter Twenty-One: Deep Water**

"So this is the wife?" the sheriff asked in disbelief as they stepped from the car into the driving rain outside. Her hair was instantly plastered to her head and water was soaking through her jacket and running under the collar of her tee shirt. Everything around her was sodden and muddy. She looked at the unrelieved gray of the clouds. No end in sight.

Gil's arm went around her protectively. "Yeah," he replied. He bent his head to her ear, whispering, "just play along." She nodded, hoping she had masked her surprise quickly enough.

Vanessa stuck her hand out to the sheriff, and he returned with a firm handshake. "Good to meet you. Thanks for coming out. Let's go in the diner while we still have one," he cast a surreptitious glance to the northwestern side of the town, where the river was raging precariously closely to its banks. "The road up north is completely blocked," he explained, shaking the water from his poncho and hat as they stepped inside. He looked at the woman behind the counter. "Three coffees, please."

The woman's eyes followed Gil with a shade of disappointment when she saw his arm around another woman. Vanessa choked back a chuckle and gratefully took the cup of hot liquid from the sheriff. "I hope this is high octane?" she inquired. "It sounds like I've got some long days ahead of me."

"Yeah, well, unless we get some more help, you do. What's with the last name?" he asked bluntly.

"Huh?" Vanessa returned, not catching the point of his question, since she hadn't been in on the 'joke' from the beginning.

"Well, I guess there's a lot of women not changing their names anymore. We don't see much of that around here, though."

Vanessa's eyes narrowed at first, but there was no judgment in the other man's tone. "Is it still Goldman on my paperwork?" she asked, remembering his greeting.

Alan looked down at his notebook. "Apparently."

"You know, I've submitted that paperwork about three times. I guess they figure as long as they have my phone number they don't need to worry about anything else," she joked.

They sat down at a cozy table and the Alan immediately flipped over a paper placemat so that he could show Vanessa a map of the area. "Over here," he drew an 'x' over the road leading out of town on the north, "we're completely cut off. The whole hillside slumped, and until this stops, we can't get anyone in there to figure out how bad the damage is."

Vanessa nodded, looking intently at the paper and the markings that the sheriff was sketching out for her.

"Where are your people sandbagging out there? How long have they been at it?"

"They're over here," he drew a circle just west of the slump, and further in toward the center of town. "They've been working two hours on and two hours off for the last two days. We've got about ten down there now."

"First thing, we need to pull people in to relieve them," Vanessa replied decisively, taking in the situation quickly and organizing the actions that needed to be taken. "How are they getting fed?"

"They're driving here and we've been hooking up sandwiches and coffee," he told her.

"Your wife told me you already evacuated part of the town. Where are they sheltered and are there any injuries?" she was still focusing intently on the map, the rest of the room fading from her attention.

"We've managed to put them up with other folks, at the station. Anywhere we have room for them. We had a couple sprained ankles, scrapes and bruises, but nothing serious. Doc helped us see to them."

"How likely that the rest are going to have to leave?" she asked gravely.

"Right now? Pretty damn likely," he told her. She noticed how tired the man's eyes were. He wasn't getting any more rest than the sand bagging crews.

"Do you already have an intake shelter for them?"

"Nope. Can't seem to get anyone on the phone. Which is a moot point anyway, since most of the phone lines went down with the hillside." He rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. You shouldn't have bothered coming out here. This is ridiculous. We've got maybe five other volunteers in all the phone calls we made..."

Vanessa was shocked. "What about the Red Cross?"

"Their chapter is to the north of us. They can't get in. Clark won't send anyone out of jurisdiction yet. We're stuck."

"Not anymore you're not," she laid her hand on his, to comfort him. "I'm gonna go through my address book and make a few phone calls and see what I can do about that. Is there anything else I should know?"

"You'll be staying in the cabin on my property. My wife's been beside herself, she hasn't had a chance to clean it up yet. Don't mention anything or I'll never get the end of it. We've been using it for storage the last few years." He gave Vanessa a half hearted smile. "Will you be staying as well? We could use another sand bagger," he turned to Gil.

"As tempting as that offer is, I only have this evening off. I should be getting home," he replied, looking reluctantly at Vanessa.

Alan and Vanessa cast their eyes outside. The rain was increasing. She saw lighting flickering in the distance. "Gil, you shouldn't try to drive in this at night," she admonished.

He looked at his watch, "its only three in the afternoon," he protested.

"And its dark enough to be eight o'clock already. No. I'm afraid I'm putting my foot down on that plan." Her brows lowered in his direction. She turned back to the sheriff. "How many volunteers can stay in this cabin?"

"Its got three bedrooms and a bathroom. You could probably squeeze five into the bedrooms, and another couple into the living room. Why?"

"Sounds like kind of big for a 'cabin." Vanessa noted.

"My wife's grandparents were the ones who originally built it, and they added on to it. Her parents built the house we're in now. I still want to know why."

"I think I might be able to rally some troops," she said with a smile.

"I still think I could make it home," Gil grumbled into his coffee.

"Excuse me?" she questioned sharply, turning to him.

Alan didn't really try to conceal his humor at Gil's expense. Vanessa continued, and slowly Alan's expression of mirth changed to one of sympathy. "You had better not even be thinking about it. You think I need to worry about whether or not that gas-hog makes it home without flipping or sliding off the road?"

"Like I'm not going to be worried about you. You could get hurt working up here, you know."

Alan just shook his head, knowing that the other man couldn't have picked a worse response. It was a lesson he'd learned early in his marriage.

"We've had that discussion before," she said in a level voice that, at least temporarily, ended the debate.

Once at the cabin, she began unloading her gear and cleaning up a little. There was dust on most everything, and old toys, clothes and books occupied the closets and most of the corners. In the middle of the main room, which opened out directly from the front door, was a battered old green couch, a couple chairs, and a large fireplace. The windows on the opposite side of the room faced the river -- from the back porch she could hear it roaring.

"Its pretty basic," Alan apologized. "But the utilities work. Thanks again for coming out. Barb should have dinner ready by around six." He turned and left, closing the door behind him, and ran back out into the rain to his own vehicle. His work was hardly finished for the day.

Vanessa scanned the kitchen and found a tea kettle; she immediately washed it, filled it and turned a burner on under it. Despite the fact that it was late June, the storm had lent a chill to the mountain air. Lightning flickered through the windows again, and this time they heard thunder rumbling softly in the distance.

She left off the kettle and began a search for candles and oil lamps, finding a generous store of both in the closet of the smallest bedroom. These she set out on the kitchen counter, a well worn Formica affair in pale yellow. After that, she rounded up blankets and settled some of them in the living room and others the bedroom she'd gotten the oil lamps from. She certainly could have chosen one of the larger rooms, but if she managed to bring in reinforcements, she didn't want to wind up sharing. These were people she'd worked with before, some of them many years ago, but she still valued her space and privacy. She was reasonably sure that she'd get precious little of it during the next two weeks, so she wanted to make the most of the opportunities she had.

The beds had been freshly made -- no doubt part of Barb's truncated preparations for guests that she had somehow worked around meals and phone calls and everything else. While she was bustling around, Gil had been loading in the last of her luggage: lap top computer, and a suitcase full of clothes. "I didn't think you'd settle into your role quite so readily," he joked, referring to the scolding he'd gotten at the diner as he set the bags down by the door.

"Who says I was playing?" she replied tensely. "I would worry about you. Is that so unbelievable? I'll worry about you anyway, but I'll worry less if you at least have good light to drive in. And before you say it, I know that you're going to worry, and I promise I'll call you once a day," she crossed the room and put her arms around his waist, "just please, for me, stay here tonight." She felt pathetic asking, knowing that in part she just wanted him close to her for a little longer. However, it was valid that the roads weren't safe this evening. She kept reminding herself of that. She looked up into his blue eyes and hoped he wasn't going to be stubborn.

What she saw made her break into a the first real, heart felt smile she'd had all day. His arms went around her shoulders and she leaned into him, glad that she didn't have to face this alone just yet. There was little getting around the fact that, ever since they had driven into town -- even before that -- she had looked at the rugged terrain and the remoteness of the area and sincerely wondered if she'd finally gotten in over her head with something.

The scream of the tea kettle broke her thoughts, and she scrambled to turn off the heat, while opening the box of black tea that had thoughtfully been left on the counter. Once the drinks were brewing, she set them on the counter closest to the door, encouraging Gil to take one.

He had been standing in the door way, just staring at her; she couldn't quite read the expression on his face. It wasn't quite the bug-studying look. He was carefully observing every move she made without the kind of unnerving scrutiny that went with the bug-studying look. She was aware of his eyes on her as she set the small dining room table up as a first aid/communication area. The table was on the opposite side of the door as the kitchen, and its proximity to the outside made it the best place for her to leave supplies she might have to grab on her way out if she was in a hurry. This is also where she left her cell phone charger, a notebook, and some basic emergency management and first aid text books.

The coffee table she reserved as her 'office.' This was where her lap top found its home, at least for the time being. She hefted the suitcase with her clothing in it to the bedroom and dropped it on the floor at the foot of the double bed.

Upon returning to the front room, she noticed that Gil had picked up one of the mugs of tea, and had moved into the middle of the room, but was still watching her with that strange expression on his face. Slowly, she walked to the counter, claimed her own mug, and stepped past him into the front room. The couch, for all that the color was a bit dated, was surprisingly comfortable. She settled in, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the chill, and propped her feet up on the coffee table.

After a few minutes, she broke in on his reverie. "What? Did you grow roots?"

He shook his head and took a seat next to her, still silent. "I guess not," she answered her own question. "So..." she reached over to brush his cheek with her thumb, letting her hand linger for a moment, "what's going on behind those beautiful eyes of yours?"

"Nothing," he fibbed outrageously, giving himself a mental shake.

"Uhh-huh. That's why you've been doing nothing but stare at me for the last ten minutes."

He finished his tea and leaned forward to set the cup on the coffee table. "I drank tea. I walked over here. I sat down. I've done all kinds of stuff. I recited the periodic table, and you didn't even know it," he teased, leaning back into the cushions.

She pulled her legs up on the couch and curled them beside her, turning to face him. "The periodic table, huh? All while you were staring at me."

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"So you aren't going to tell me what you were thinking," she asserted, trying refocus the conversation.

He leaned in and put his arm around her shoulders, "I was thinking that you are an amazing woman," he told her quietly.

She snorted derisively. "I don't know about that," she started. "If I'm so damn amazing, why do I feel like I just got in over my head?"

"If there's anyone that can handle this, its you," he told her, leaning in to kiss her. "Alan looks a little worse for wear, though."

She returned the kiss, thinking to reply, but getting thoroughly distracted by him. There was a squeak of un-oiled hinges as the door opened and they both jumped, turning to see a middle age woman walking into the room. "I told him to bring you to the house, dammit." She surveyed the dust that she hadn't swept out yet with an air of dissatisfaction.

Vanessa was the first to react, jumping off the couch and walking toward the woman with her hand extended. "You must be Barb. Don't think a thing of it. It'll probably be enough to keep me happy that I have a place to go that's dry at the end of the day."

The woman's grip was strong and Vanessa returned it. "We're just so glad that someone came. Most of the time, Jackpot is really a nice little town, but we find ourselves a little remote sometimes."

"That's all right. I'm going to go through my address book tonight and see if I can't call in some reinforcements. Do you need help with phone calls or anything?"

"No, you two get settled in. At least Alan called to tell me we'd have an extra for dinner. Looks like you two settled that argument you were having about whether or not he'd be staying the night here."

Vanessa turned in time to see Gil blush slightly. This was a small town. It didn't occur to people that a public discussion should be kept between two people. "It wasn't an argument," he commented finally.

She sneezed, shaking a few strands of blonde hair loose from the long braid that held it back. "Leland and that damn cat of his are staying in the house. He was one of the first to evacuate. Its a nice enough cat, I suppose, if I weren't so allergic to it. And if I weren't so tired." She stopped herself. "I just came out to tell you that we should have supper set up in about a half hour. You go ahead and get settled in," she finished, crossing the room to head back out into the rain.

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Reinforcements**

Gil left the next morning as soon as there was sufficient light, and Vanessa spent a few hours on the phone calling in favors from a smattering of colleagues that she knew were "in the area" -- meaning anywhere within a six hour drive. And she got results, much to her surprise.

Andrea had been the first to say yes, and she didn't even think before she did it. She'd met the other woman close to ten years before, working with search and rescue emergency services on the East Coast. They were almost total opposites, but had become fast friends. Andrea's spunk and sense of humor had pulled her through more than one long night in the few years they worked together.

She'd also met Kevin on the East Coast, although with a Habitat for Humanity project that was part of hurricane clean up. Vanessa had always thought he was a born leader, and considered it a shame he hadn't gone into politics, although she had to admit that he was probably too nice for that racket when all was said and done.

Ted came from Oregon, she'd known him most of her life. His current occupation had something to do with computers and security systems, but she remembered a time when she'd taught him to make spaghetti sauce from scratch when they were young and broke. Even though she was still tight on money, it seemed like an entire lifetime ago.

Beth had worked in the southwest with ecology groups and the Department of Natural Resources for many years -- she'd been fifteen years older than Vanessa when they'd met and she still hadn't slowed down appreciably.

Mike was a technical whiz -- she'd never known anyone else with a knack for dumping data into a computer and, presto-change-o, have it come out making sense. He'd been one of the volunteers she'd worked with in the Midwest, all over tornado alley. The day he'd gotten near a mobile Doppler radar system, he'd looked like a kid in a candy store and he'd stayed behind after she'd left helping the weather service research sever weather patterns.

In the days after Gil left and as her crew trickled in, when she wasn't working on a sandbagging crew, interviewing those already evacuated, helping people still in their homes collect vital documents and prepare for their own evacuation, she was poring over maps and weather reports putting together contingency plans and volunteer schedules. And when she wasn't working on those items, she was on the phone again, nagging aid agencies to send help. Alan had been right. Jackpot was caught between jurisdictions. Nothing from the north, where all the vital agencies were located, could reach them unless it was by air, and the town didn't afford many places for helicopters to land. Everything to the south was outside the county, and preparing for their own hazards as a result of the weather.

Her reinforcements began to trickle in, and she turned some of those jobs over to those with more appropriate training and talents. After that, she focused on physical work -- canvassing the town, talking to residents, endless sandbagging, helping Barb in the kitchen to keep crews fed.

She found sleeping alone awkward now, and the thought that she was possibly too dependent on Gil tickled the back of her mind again, but she pushed it aside along her worries that she wasn't doing enough, or that she had overlooked something, replacing doubt with labor. The fact of the matter was that she figured she wouldn't be able to sleep anyway, so the hours she would spend in slumber might as well be spent doing something productive. Besides, it was only for two weeks...

The rain had let up briefly midway through the week, but had come back with a vengeance. It wouldn't be long before they had to evacuate the town in spite of the heroic efforts of the handful of people manning the sandbagging crews. Vanessa couldn't help but be pissed that all their work had come to nothing. Mostly she was angry at herself, always looking behind her, thinking there was something else she should have done.

She was soaked to the skin and cold the second she stepped out of the door of the cabin. Two of her cohorts were off for a few hours. Kevin had been sleeping on the couch in front of the fire, Andrea had been working at her lap top, and Ted had set about to making dinner. Vanessa couldn't help chuckling, remembering all those years ago she'd taught him how to cook for himself.

Mike and Beth were out assessing the level of the river, trying to get an estimate as to how long they had before they had to throw in the towel officially.

There was almost a family atmosphere among the volunteers -- she couldn't believe that she could still count on them after all these years. Not that she hadn't stayed in touch, but for them to take time out, without getting paid, because she had asked...she felt very humble.

None of that cut through the anger she felt, though. The previous slump had slumped again, sliding further over the highway, when more mud and rocks had tumbled down the hillside on top of it. It would be late summer before they had it cleared. And Jackpot didn't warrant support in the form of aircraft yet. As long as they could evacuate to the south, the county Department of Emergency Management was going to stall. The only resources of substance to the south were across the county line. They were still between a rock and a hard place.

Vanessa shook her head vehemently, approaching the spot on the river that she had been studying earlier that morning. There had been a log jam threatening the banks at that point, but with help from the director of public works, they had pried it loose, saving their sand bag wall for another short while.

She was stunned to see two men, instead of stacking sandbags like she had left them doing, seemingly ready to start fighting.

"What the hell is going on here?" she shouted over the rain and the raised voices of the two men, moving to stand between them.

Leland and Marty. Alan had told her not to put them together, but they were all she had at the moment. She'd hoped that whatever was between them, they'd put it aside for a moment and not act like a couple of children. Hope springs eternal, and sometimes optimism bites you in the ass.

They didn't even pause. Leland was seeing red, and Marty was shouting back at him, something about his jailbird son.

She raised her voice another notch. "Hey! Kids! Knock it off and get back to those sand bags!"

Again, no result. She put her hands square in the middle of Leland's chest and pushed him backward with all her strength. He stepped back a pace and looked at her, "I can't work with this asshole!" he shouted at her.

"Well, too damn bad. Get off your asses and sandbag, NOW!" she was tired, and hungry, and her entire body hurt. She'd pulled muscles she'd forgotten she had, and her joints were aching viciously. She'd spent the week taking in more nicotine and caffeine than actual sustenance. If she'd wanted to deal with kids, she wouldn't have spent most of her adult life taking pills to avoid just such an instance.

Marty turned his back on Leland, limping away from the supplies, and back to the road.

Without warning, Leland sprang back into action, grabbing the other man by his coveralls, dragging him through the mud back to the sand pile, and pushing a shovel at him. "If you're so much more man than anyone here, let see what you're made of!"

Marty's face pulled into an ugly smirk, he sank the shovel into the sand, and before Vanessa could get between them again, he had pulled back and punched Leland. Leland turned and spat before he got up, heading straight for the other man again. Again, he picked up the shovel and pushed it in his hands, this time without a single word. Just a glare.

This time Vanessa was quick enough. She ran between them, and when Marty reached out to shove Leland, he turned his attention to her instead, sending her sprawling past Leland and to the bank of the river.

The mud slid beneath her, and the bank, weakened by the rushing water that had carved its support out from under it, gave under her weight. She was aware that she screamed once as she descended toward the violent, bone-numbing water below.

Desperately, she reached out on the slope for anything she could hold on to. She felt dirt clumping under her nails as she sank her fingers into the mud, finally clutching at an exposed tree root. The water was pulling at her legs, ready to pull her in half. It was swirling up to her knees. She felt debris, swept along by the churning water, slamming into her legs. Bolts of pain shot up her legs and she clung to the only hand hold that offered itself.

She looked above her, Leland was running toward her, leaving a dumbfounded Marty giving the Sheriff his usual silent treatment. A hand shot out toward her, and she reached toward it without thinking. Another hand linked over her wrist, and she grasped this with her other hand. With a heave, she slid up onto the bank where she just lay there like a fish, trying to catch her breath and assess her situation.

Alan was cuffing Marty, putting him in the back of the Jeep. Leland was crouched over her. "Are you okay?"

She used an arm to push herself up a little way. "Do I look okay?" she growled.

"Can you sit up?" he asked, looking contrite.

She grunted as she levered her other arm under her, rolling herself onto her backside. Leland supported her with one arm, and she found she could accomplish this much. She was shaking, with cold and adrenaline. Maybe something else. Who knew.

"Okay, can you stand up?"

She tried to pull her legs under her so that she could gain the leverage to get herself upright. Her right leg cooperated nicely. The left was another story. The pain that started at her knee and went everywhere after that made her scream before she could catch herself.

"I take that to be a no," Leland offered.

"I can do without the commentary," she snapped, glaring at him. As far as she was concerned, the both of them were still in trouble.

Leland turned to see Alan walking in their direction. "She can't get up," he called to his brother. "I think its her knee. Her leg doesn't feel broken."

Alan closed his eyes and swore. She couldn't hear him from where she sat, but she could read his lips for certain. He stepped back to the Jeep and she saw him pull the radio from its usual position on the sun visor.

Leland trotted back over to her. "Alan's gonna take you to the clinic himself. He called one of the other officers to come get Marty, then he's gonna call home for you."

That was an instance that hadn't sunk into her consciousness as of yet. No wonder Alan was swearing. Someone was going to have to tell Gil.

A half hour later, Marty had been dispatched, and Alan had splinted her left leg neatly. The two men helped her to the car and reclined her in the back seat before they set out to the clinic -- which turned out to be the veterinarian's office, since the general practitioner that usually served the town was in Clark County lobbying for resources.

"It isn't dislocated," the good doctor told Alan, pointing to her knee on the x-ray film. "But it could require surgery. She needs an MRI to make sure, Alan. I can't do this."

"Shit," Alan had been saying that a lot today. He was hoping it would be minor enough that he could avoid the call to Vegas. Not anymore. But, the vet told them that time was of the essence, so they loaded her in the car again and drove her into the next town, where they had a small hospital.

The veterinarian had sent her films with them. Vanessa offered to call Gil once they got to the hospital, but within minutes of her arrival, it seemed, they had spiked her with an IV drip of saline and a shot of some sort of delicious pain killer that made everything go fuzzy and warm.

Alan paced the hall while the doctor looked at her injury and reset the knee, finally wrapping the joint with an ice pack and immobilizing it.

He stuck his head in her room. She looked at him, bleary eyed and smiling, "I c'n call 'im," she slurred, determined to make good on her offer.

Alan smiled back and shook his head, ducking back out into the hall.

It was eleven at night. He was looking forward to her call today, tell her about the case he'd wrapped up last night, about how Aaron was doing with his classes. He was allowing himself a rare moment to mentally drift when the phone on his desk shrilled in his ear.

It rang one more time before he picked it up.

"Grissom," he spoke, all traces of daydreaming gone from his voice.

"Hey, its Alan Brooks," the Sheriff said without ceremony.

Suspicion clouded Gil's face immediately. "I know you aren't calling me in to come help sandbag," he tried to joke.

"I wish I was, Gil. God, I'm sorry. I don't know how it happened -- well, actually I know pretty well how it happened --"

"How what happened?" Gil's voice was sharper now.

"Jesus. She's in the hospital. They just took her back for an MRI to make sure she doesn't need surgery. They aren't going to find anything good. Barb hasn't been able to get her to eat decent -- all she can think about is keeping the situation here under control," he halted abruptly.

"In the hospital?" he snapped back. "Which hospital?"

"Mercy Hospital down in Barrington, just south of Jackpot. It isn't big, but they'll take care of her, I promise."

"No. I'm on my way," he replied, hanging up.

He grabbed his keys and headed out of his office, locking up behind him. He ran into Catherine in the break room. The woman he considered to be one of his closest friends knew instantly that something was amiss. He explained the situation to her, and she assured him that she and Warrick could manage things if he needed a few days.

The look on his face unnerved her, though, so she pressed a cup of coffee on him, trying to get him to sit down for a moment.

"Catherine, I really have to go," he insisted, setting the coffee cup down on the table.

"Go where, boss?" Nick was standing in the door, looking worried and curious. It wasn't like Grissom to bag out in the middle of shift.

"Jackpot. Or just south of Jackpot. Vanessa got hurt --" he stopped himself before he let go of his irritation. This was just the kind of thing he'd been worried about. She could have been killed.

"Griss, I don't like the look of you," Nick told him bluntly. It was uncharacteristic, but he'd never seen his supervisor look so scattered. "I don't think you oughtta drive. Maybe I should call Aaron or something."

"I'm fine, Nick," Gil ground out.

Nick didn't need anymore proof. He lifted his eyebrows at Catherine, who nodded. "Give me the keys, Griss," the investigator held out his hand.

"I'm not drunk, Nick. I can drive myself."

"I know you're not drunk," he drawled back, "and no you can't. I'm gonna drive. You're gonna sit in the passenger seat and get your bearings. I'll be back in time for shift tomorrow. I was just gonna be going over cold cases, anyhow."

Gil looked angry. It was a look that would have made Nick back down under just about any other circumstance. This was different. "You think its gonna do her a whole world of good if you get there and you're coming apart at the seams? Or, worse, get in a wreck and get hurt yourself? No, Griss. Gimme the keys."

Gil looked quickly at Catherine, who nodded support for Nick. He just swore under his breath, dropped his keys on the table and stalked out of the break room. Nick quietly stepped in behind him, picked up the discarded keys, and followed his boss out the door, bracing himself for what could be a very uncomfortable drive north.

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Confined**

The steady thrum of the MRI tube surrounding her, combined with the pain medication, was almost relaxing, if it hadn't been for that damn tech whose voice kept barking instructions at her over the speaker. She growled and held still, per the request of the disembodied voice, even though she would have felt better telling it to kiss her ass.

Finally, the exam was over and she was wheeled into a room. The doctor wanted to keep her for observation. Her temperature had been low when they'd brought her in. They were concerned about a head injury, even though she told them she hadn't hit her head. Even with pain killers in her system, she wasn't a friggin idiot, no matter what they thought.

Alan was waiting in the room for her. "What the hell are you still doing here?" she snapped.

"Waiting for you," he replied patiently. "Grissom is on his way." His face registered a shade of dread. The phone call hadn't gone as poorly as he thought it might, but that might simply be because the other man was saving it for an actual meeting.

"What's happening with the sandbags? Are they evacuating yet?" she sounded calm, but her eyes said different.

"I told Barb to work with your crew and get the people closest to the river pulled back a ways, and then cherry pick people to evacuate based on need. Seniors first, and people with disabilities. We'll play it by ear from there."

She nodded and let go of a semi-satisfied harumph. The pain meds were wearing off, and her knee was starting to get uncomfortable, to say the least. The air cast they'd put her in was annoying. The hospital gown was even more annoying. _When are they gonna put backs on these things?_ she wondered irritably. _Is that asking for too much -- that I not have to show everyone and their Uncle my ass every time I go somewhere?_ _Maybe its a tool to keep people docile while they're in here. Its hard to raise a fuss when your ass is literally hanging out._

"I want to get the hell out of here," she grumbled, glaring at the pastel painted walls and the TV bracketed above the bed.

"You don't even know the test results yet," Alan admonished.

Just then the doctor walked in. "Well, Miss Goldman, you're in luck," he said with a smile. "You've sprained the ankle and hyper-extended your knee, but other than that, you seem to be in one piece. I want to keep you for observation still, but we should be able to discharge you tomorrow."

"Tonight," she replied.

"Tomorrow," the doctor insisted.

"No, I'm not staying here a damn minute longer than I have to. I have things to take care of elsewhere."

The doctor grumbled and left the room. He had a hunch that it could be a long night with Miss Goldman in room 137. On a whim, he got discharge papers started on her.

Vanessa crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window, maintaining a mental torrent of obscenities regarding the weather, fist fights, doctors, hospitals and everything else. She internally cursed the whole stinking lot of them.

"Miss Goldman?" Alan interrupted her thoughts.

"What of it?" she snapped back.

"_Miss_," he reiterated. "You aren't going to correct that?"

"Should I?" she turned to him, exasperated. "I'm saving my energy to argue with them about getting out of here." She looked at the room and felt like the walls were closing in on her. She hated hospitals. She hated the beds with the too stiff linens. She hated the smell. She hated feeling like she was being watched all the time, people waiting for something to be wrong with her. She hated having no personal space. She wanted a cigarette for crying out loud. Not a damn patch. A cigarette.

Four hours had passed since the doctor had been in. Vanessa sat up in bed, irritably drumming her fingers on the railing. She hated goddam beds with goddam railings. Alan had gotten over his irritation at the fact that Gil had fibbed about being married quickly enough; apparently it wasn't enough to even out the fact that she'd gotten hurt on his watch.

So they'd been sitting there in silence. There was nothing on TV. She'd read most of the magazines. She didn't have her laptop, so there wasn't any way she could take care of the administrative nonsense that had accumulated over the last week.

The doctor breezed in, trying to look confident and relaxed. "So, how are you doing?"

She looked at him, fully alert now, "I would like to be discharged now," she told him in an even voice.

"I really don't think that's best," he shook his head. There was a patronizing note to his voice that grated on her nerves.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that. I know that you have a very expensive piece of paper on your wall that means you spent years in school to do what you're doing now, but none of that takes precedence over free will. I would like to be discharged," her tone stayed even, and she hadn't moved a muscle except to look him square in the eyes.

"You understand this is against medical advice," he started.

"You understand that I don't care," she finished. "You can go start the paperwork, now." She had purposely refused further pain meds so that it couldn't be argued that she was not cognitive enough to make the decision. Her knee was throbbing terribly, adding to her current temper.

The doctor only nodded and left the room. Two hours later, a nurse came in with a prescription for a pain killer, a muscle relaxer, detailed instructions, and finally, a referral to a physical therapist.

She heaved herself out of the bed, dressed as quickly as her aching body would let her, and hobbled with the assistance of a set of crutches out to the Jeep.

The ride to Barrington had been about as uncomfortable as Nick had guessed it would be, with his boss anxiously staring out the window and drumming his fingers on the door. Hoping it would calm him some, Nick flipped through the CD organizer and threw on Pink Floyd.

Four hours into the trip, they were heading into the mountains, and stopped to grab gas and coffee. They'd hardly said two words the entire time.

Finally, greeted by rain that came in fits and spurts, they entered Barrington, a town very much like Jackpot, and found their way to the hospital. Nick found himself restraining his boss quietly while they waited to speak to the triage nurse. "Look, Gris, you can't go barging down the hall here. We'll find out soon enough."

Gil leaned against the nurse's desk, trying to keep his annoyance in check. Finally, a heavy set woman with long blonde hair, tied back in a sensible braid, wandered down to the desk. "Can I help you?"

Before Grissom could speak, Nick stepped in front of him. "We're looking for Vanessa Goldman. She was brought in with a leg injury a few hours ago."

"Are you family?" she asked.

Grissom stepped forward, "we're engaged," he told the woman flatly. Nick barely kept his mouth closed.

"Well, congratulations. Let's see..." she looked through a stack of papers confined by a clip board. "Here she is, room 137. And it looks like she'd gone," the nurse frowned.

"Huh?" Nick asked.

"She was checked out an hour ago, AMA. Looks like she left with Alan Brooks."

Grissom was already out the door while Nick thanked the woman. "So, what now?" Nick asked his boss.

"We go to Jackpot. The Sheriff has some explaining to do."

It was an hour later that they pulled into town, parking outside the Sheriff's residence and walking the path to the back yard where the cabin was. Without ceremony, Gil let himself in and was surprised at the number of people that were taking up space. Two people at the kitchen table, discussing something over a map. Another on the couch. Music coming from two bedrooms.

Once again, tact being the better part of relations, Nick stepped ahead of his boss. "We're looking for Vanessa, is she here?"

A dark haired man addressed them, "yeah. She just got in about twenty minutes ago. I think the Sheriff is helping her settle in," he hesitated before he went on, "I'd take it under advisement that she isn't in the best mood ever. I'd wait till she gets some pain medication in her."

"That won't be necessary," Grissom almost shoved Nick out of the way and stepped into the room closest to the kitchen. He found her, reclining in bed, with Alan going over the instructions left to her by the doctor.

"I know, Alan. I know," she growled. "Bed rest. Whatever. What does he know? I bet he just started shaving yesterday."

"You pointed out yourself that he went to school for a long time to get his job. He must know something. You should at least listen a little bit," Alan argued patiently.

She frowned deeply but didn't say anything. Neither of them had noticed the man standing in the doorway.

"Hey Alan, could you give us a minute?" his voice was tense.

They both jumped when they heard him speak, and Alan left the scatter of papers on the bed with Vanessa.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he asked, not quite shouting at her. "You know this is exactly what I've been worrying about all week. Only it could have been worse. You aren't twenty anymore, Vanessa."

She looked at him and harumphed again, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at her now dysfunctional left leg, which was propped up on pillows in front of her.

"So you checked out of the hospital against doctor's orders," he continued. "Are these the instructions?" he picked up the papers on the bed and glanced at the two bottles of pills on the night table.

She harumphed.

"Bed rest," he mumbled, reading over the papers in his hand.

She pulled herself upright and swung her legs off the bed, grabbing her crutches from where they were propped up beside her.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I stink like hospital. I'm going to go get cleaned up," she grumped, huffing as she propelled her way through the room with her crutches.

"No, you aren't. This says bed rest. No weight on that leg for at least two weeks."

"I stink." She reiterated impatiently, moving past him and into the hall, turning right toward the bathroom. "At least this place doesn't have stairs."

He followed her, papers in hand. "Alan tells me you haven't been eating or sleeping, either," he persisted.

"Nope. Why don't you go see about some coffee." She threw back over her shoulder. She was moving quicker now that she was getting used to her new mode of transportation. She limped into the bathroom and shut the door before he could get there and proceeded to take off the muddy tee shirt and jeans she'd been wearing when she'd gotten into this mess in the first place.

Instead, he continued to follow her, letting himself into the bathroom. He noticed immediately that she'd lost weight. Her skin hugged her frame a little tighter, her stomach was a little flatter than he remembered. He pushed his glasses up and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off the headache that was looming.

"Coffee is the last thing you need," he told her. "What you need is rest, and a decent meal or two."

"Whatever, 'Dad'," she snipped as she started the water in the bathtub and pulled the lever that redirected it to the shower head. She looked at the tub with a hint of consternation for a moment -- first the tub, then her bum leg, and back to the tub. Finally she sat down on the edge, held on to the towel bar, and swung her legs into the tub, and stood up gingerly.

"What part of this do you not get?" he asked impatiently.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe its the part where I have a job to do and people are telling me I can't now. Maybe its the part where I've busted my ass for a week and its all going to be for nothing. You tell me." She raised her voice a notch, feeling genuinely angry, although she wasn't sure if it was at him for his persistence or at her situation. She was grateful for the shower curtain, so that he couldn't see her shaking.

She got through shampoo and conditioner, and had managed to wash most of herself. The rough part was her right leg. Again, she sat on the edge of the tub, and accomplished the task quite neatly -- at least in her opinion. She turned off the water and got ready to swing her legs over the edge, but he was there to help her. At first she was inclined to shrug off his assistance, obstinately wanting to prove she was capable of handling herself even with an injury.

The look in his eyes told her otherwise, though. Even though his voice had been angry, he looked more sad than anything. She watched as he grabbed a towel and started to help her dry herself, then settled her robe over her shoulders. "God dammit, Vanessa. You have got to be the most stubborn woman I've ever met," his voice was gruff, but he was pulling her into his arms and holding her close.

She felt herself smiling against his chest, almost in spite of herself. She looked up, "you knew the job was dangerous when you took it," she teased.

"I didn't know it was going to be this dangerous," he indicated her leg. "You could have died today. Then where would I be?"

"You know," she started, looking at him openly, "that didn't even occur to me at the time. Or even at the hospital. All I could think about was not being able to finish what I started. Now, because two grown men had to act like they were on a playground, I'm sidelined. I should have just let them knock each other silly."

"What if one of them had ended up on the embankment? You'd still be blaming yourself and we both know it," he pressed his lips into her wet, tangled hair.

"I wasn't even scared, really. I was more pissed than anything. I wonder, if I hadn't been so angry at the two of them, if I would have been as determined to get back up there," she laughed at herself. "I've missed you," she told him finally, her voice softening. "Thank you for coming."

"You think I'd just stay in Vegas when you might need me?"

"Not really," she admitted. "What about the lab?"

"Warrick and Catherine can take care of things for a few days. Chalk it up to personal time," he told her in a flippant tone of voice. "Nick drove up here. He didn't seem to think I was fit to do it myself. He'd probably like to see you."

"He can wait a minute," she told him, leaning against him for the first time in what felt like forever. She linked her arms around his neck and pulled him down to kiss her.

"Satisfied?" he smiled a little when she pulled back.

"No," she told him bluntly, but with a smile.

"Maybe later I can do something about that," he suggested softly as he handed her the crutches and opened the door.

Nick watched his boss disappear into one of the rooms along the side of the room, shaking his head. He wasn't sure if he should be cringing or smirking. He could hear voices from the room, one female, sounding grouchy. The other unmistakably Grissom, but uncharacteristically agitated.

"Have a seat," the man at the table gestured. "This could take a while." Nick noted that the seat previously occupied by the other man was open, and its former holder was standing near the wall, studying another map.

"You sound like you know Grissom," he laughed.

"No, I know Vanessa. If he thinks he's going to keep her from doing anything, he's wrong," the other man said. Then he stuck his hand across the table and introduced himself, "Kevin."

"Nick," he returned the handshake. "How long have you known Vanessa?" After a closer look at the man, he realized that his first impression had been deceptive. There were faint strands of steel gray winding through his dark hair, and shallow lines around his eyes. He was probably closer to Vanessa's age than either of them had guessed. Assuming that Grissom had taken a moment to guess anything...

"About fifteen years. We built houses for Habitat. Who was that, anyhow?"

"She didn't mention Grissom? Those two have been attached at the hip for about nine months now!" Nick was genuinely surprised.

"She hasn't said anything that didn't have something to do with mitigation and contingency plans," Kevin shook his head. "I should have known something was up. Even she usually isn't that single minded."

The conversation was interrupted as the Sheriff moved quickly into the front room, followed by Vanessa, who headed toward the bathroom, and Grissom, who followed her. They all watched the progress of the couple. There was no need for them to strain their ears to catch his end of the conversation. Hers was buried in irritated grumbles and puffed exhales as she pushed herself toward the bathroom.

Kevinshook his head. "I've yet to meet anyone who can stop her from doing anything once she sets her mind to it."

A woman stepped into the room, considerably younger than Kevin or Vanessa. "What's this? Vanessa found a guy? This I gotta hear." She plunked down at the table, taking the last chair. "I'm Andrea." She announced without ceremony.

Kevin made the necessary introductions, a little more formally than the woman had. Andrea turned and looked expectantly at Nick, who only smiled and shook his head. "I don't know if that would be right."

"Oh, come on," Andrea pressed, "God knows she won't tell us on her own."

Nick just shrugged, only too aware of his boss's very private nature. On the other hand, maybe that was something that was shifting. Vanessa seemed to have that effect on him, which the team had agreed was a good thing. He'd been lost in thought for a few minutes when Andrea waved her hand in front of his face.

"How long have they been together?"

"About nine months, now. I think," Nick realized he was estimating. It was hard telling how those two figured things, between being room mates and the current state of their relationship, and all that had gone on in between. He even understood that they'd wound up on a couple of pseudo-dates while she was plugging away on the contract proposal.

"How did you meet Vanessa?" Andrea tried another angle.

"She was working on a proposal for the crime lab. It was a temporary spot before she got picked up by the community center. She's been managing that for probably seven months now?" he found himself guessing again, ticking the time back on his fingers to see if he was right. Then he caught Andrea looking at him intently. "That's all you get."

He told her firmly. Griss was lucky he hadn't had Greg driving. He'd probably be sick of Rage Against the Machine by now, _and_ the entire group would be assembled in the living room for his animated retelling of the history of Vanessa and Grissom. He almost laughed at the image -- a group of grown people gathered around a fire, eating popcorn, the lights dimmed, and Greg holding court in front of them, telling stories.

The two of them came out of the bathroom, Vanessa wrapped up in her fleece robe, a heavy wool sock on her foot, and Grissom's arm around her as she hobbled to the kitchen. She looked at the coffee pot and noted it was empty, and proceeded to set it back up again. "You know you should eat before you take either of these," he told her, leaning against the counter.

She rolled her eyes. "They're more fun if I don't. In fact, if you really want fun, I should spike the coffee with some whiskey and take some."

"Be glad I know you're joking about the alcohol," he admonished, turning to rummage through the cupboards. "Now go sit down."

Nick stifled a smile at his boss -- this was definitely a side of him they didn't get to see at work. Sure, he was in control of the situation, like he always was, and he was focused, that wasn't unusual. But the tone was different. It was softer somehow, the sharp edges he was so used to weren't there.

Vanessa turned on the coffee pot and reluctantly left the kitchen to sit down at the table. She was grumbling something under her breath about how everyone thought they got to boss her around all of a sudden. Kevin looked up at her. "That's because you never know when to quit."

"Oh, shut up," she told him, softening her comment with a little bit of a smile as she turned her head to watch Gil in the kitchen throwing together a sandwich. "Hey Ted," the man studying the map on the wall turned, "what have you got figured out?"

Kevin spoke again, "nothing. Let us handle it."

"Fine. You guys better get it all out of your systems in the next couple days. That's all the more time I'm taking, crutches or no," she said, resigned to her fate. The people she had collected here as part of her team were people she had, at one point or another, considered part of one pseudo-family or another; some from college, others from one community service project or another. Nick was looking at her with undisguised astonishment on his face -- he knew too well that if anyone in Vegas had taken that tone with her, she'd have stood up and given them hell. Here, with these people, she took her lumps readily. It was just how they had learned to respond to and care for each other over the years.

Gil stepped over to the table, balancing a small plate, two coffee cups, and two bottles of pills. Most of this he unloaded in front of Vanessa before claiming the last seat. "I'm going to sit here and watch you until you finish that, too," he told her, sliding his chair next to hers.

She just grumbled -- good naturedly. "I haven't seen her in mood this good since I got here," Ted teased, looking over at the group from his place by the map.

"No joke," Andrea chimed in, "can we keep him?" she looked at Nick. Kevin looked between them and shook his head again.

The music in the other room stopped and a short, middle-aged, black woman stepped out. She immediately rushed over to Vanessa and gave the woman a hug, "how are you feeling? We were worried when we heard what happened!" she exclaimed, taking in the crutches and the air cast that encased her left leg.

"I'll be fine when everyone sees fit to stop with the mother hen routine," she looked at the woman with a smile. "Well, that and when Gil lets me at those damn pain killers."

"Sandwich first," he looked pointedly at the plate in front of her.

"I know, I know," she rolled her eyes and picked it up, taking a bite.

The black woman looked over the assembled group. "I'm still making dinner, right?" Everyone nodded. "Then I have two extra? Do we have enough hamburger, or should I make some tomato soup to go with them?"

The group was pretty lax about food -- they'd all had worse at conferences. As long as it didn't give anyone cramps, it didn't have to be gourmet.

"Thanks, 'Beth," Kevin called over his shoulder as the woman set out for the kitchen.

The only one left that hadn't been introduced in some way or another was the man sitting on the couch tapping away at the keys on a laptop computer. It was his knack with computers and math, along with his open compassion for others, that had made him stand out to Vanessa, made him one of the people she called. He was crunching numbers from the archive of weather patterns in the area to extrapolate the potential of this particular incident. From there, he was going to take the information and plug it into a graphics program that would show them an animation of what to expect. To help with this, Ted and Kevin had been going over maps, looking for areas of high ground. In fact, the map on the wall that Ted had been studying so intently was the type of map that hikers used, which marked elevations. Every so often, Mike would ask him for a location and Ted would call back the coordinates and a number that represented the elevation of the location. Vanessa looked between the two of them and thanked God for about the millionth time for the both of them, their talents, and their willingness to collaborate. And their ability to put up with her. She realized she hadn't been the easiest person to live with the last few days since they'd gotten there; now that Gil was here she felt like there was a weight gone from her shoulders, like she had somehow become lighter, happier. When he'd left a week ago, she'd stood on the porch watching the SUV disappear into the distance. It had wrenched at her, but she'd buried the feeling and thrown herself at her work instead. It had served as a decent distraction for the most part.

"Why didn't you say something?" Andrea was the first to start in. "We've been worried about you -- you've been..." she stumbled, looking for a kinder way to put what she was thinking. Finally she gave up, "bitchier than normal."

Vanessa looked at her from over her sandwich -- just the way she liked it, roast beef, cheese, mayo and horseradish, sliced diagonally -- her eyebrows arched.

"She's been trying to dredge poor Nick here for gossip," Kevin told them, looking back at his map. Ted asked him for a coordinate and Kevin read the numbers back to him. Ted stuck a red tack into the map.

"I haven't said anything," Nick held up his hands when all eyes went to him. "Okay, I told them that she helped put together our union proposal and that you guys have been attached for about nine months. I figured the rest was all yours," then he looked at Andrea, unable to resist getting his opinion into the mix, "besides, he hasn't exactly been a party to work with the last week, either."

Grissom shot the younger investigator a look. Nick sat back in his chair and regarded his boss casually, "Its not just me, man. You've been a royal pain. Ask anyone," he defended himself.

Vanessa tried to hide her grin by taking a deep slug of her coffee. Finally finishing her sandwich, happy to just sit back and take in the good natured teasing being traded between some of her closer friends, she reached under the table and rested her hand on Gil's leg in an unconscious gesture of affection.

Andrea was still looking at her expectantly. The number of times her co-workers and friends had tried to set her up with someone was beyond counting. Eventually they'd all just given up. Now, here she was, obviously involved with someone. They all felt she owed them an explanation. Its just that some were more patient than others.

Vanessa regarded the group coolly, tapping a pain killer out of the bottle and swigging it back with the last of her coffee. "That's all there is to it. Except Nick," she looked at him, "its eight and a half."

"Well pardon me," he teased. "I was close enough. And that's hardly all there is to it."

Vanessa sat back in her chair to consider her options. With a smirk, she looked at Nick again, "maybe you could tell me what else there is. It might be interesting to hear about it from an outside perspective."

"Ohhh, no," he waved her off. "You're just gonna get me in trouble with that."

"Nicky," she chided, "you aren't in the lab now. In fact, this is my turf," she looked at Gil, who was trying not to gape at her. "You can say anything you want to. Besides," her brows lowered, "you already told him he was a pain in the ass. How much worse can it get?"

With that, she picked up her crutches and swung her way to the back door, where she stepped out to the porch and lit a cigarette. Andrea followed. No one had tried harder to get her out of her shell. And yet, no one had respected her decisions as Andrea had. When she opted not to go out again with one of Andrea's particular 'victims,' as they'd come to be called, she never questioned that Vanessa was holding the men she met to standards which were unattainable.

She reached over and helped Vanessa keep her balance while she settled herself into a chair. The roaring of the river was constant, and much closer than it had been when she'd first gotten there. It was a noise she was learning to associate with frustration.

"Sooo." Andrea looked at her intently.

"So what?" Vanessa was being purposefully evasive now, just to tease her friend.

"So what's up with the guy? Not bad, by the way."

"Just 'not bad?' That's all you have to say?" Vanessa returned.

"Does he pass the test or are you settling like everyone told you to?" Andrea asked bluntly.

"He passes. With flying colors," Vanessa replied quietly, watching the smoke drift past the roof of the porch and dissipate in the cooler air beyond.

"Well, that earns him a notch above 'not bad,' " she shrugged.

"Look. I know that where people are concerned, my optimism occasionally wins out over my common sense. You don't have to worry about me."

Andrea snorted, "yeah, right. What does he have that the others didn't?" She sounded genuinely curious. Vanessa had frequently been unable to articulate what it was about one of the 'victims' that she hadn't cared for.

"Curiosity," Vanessa replied simply. "That's something no one else really got about me; the urge to see something for the first time, or the thrill of feeling like you don't know everything -- its exciting because it means there's more to learn."

Andrea just nodded. "It looks like he takes care of you."

Vanessa laughed. "He certainly tries. I think that's a job that's over just about anyone's head though."

Andrea laughed in return, "that's for sure." Then she turned serious again, "are you happy?"

Vanessa didn't feel the need to duck her friend's question, which surprised her a little. Instead, she met Andrea's eyes and nodded, "yeah. I am."

"You know the gossip mill is going to burn itself down with this, don't you?"

Vanessa frowned and nodded, "I suppose. I don't know why its so hard for people to mind their own personal lives."

"Because, we've all been married and divorced and figured if anyone could do this right, it would be you. We figure we can get a glimpse of that so we can follow your example. Although, I don't know if most of us would have been willing to wait so long," she teased.

"What about getting married?"

"What about it?" Vanessa replied. "I think we're a little old for all that nonsense," she groused finally.

Andrea looked back in the window. The people seated around the table were laughing at something. Even Mike, still sitting at his computer, was smiling. "It would just be nice. You know, to see you get all dressed up and stuff. And I bet he looks _fine_ in a tux," she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"Back off!" Vanessa teased, "its taken me forty years to run across this one!" Then she grinned back at her friend, "and for the record, he looks delicious in a tux." She dropped her cigarette in the coffee can she'd set on the picnic table. "This whole bum leg thing is getting to be a pain in the ass," she grumped, reaching for her crutches.

"Yeah, well, I know you well enough to know that without something like that to hold you up, you'd never take time off." Andrea offered a shoulder for balance as Vanessa stood up.

The porch did a slight swing and Vanessa caught herself, grinning foolishly. "I think the pain meds are kicking in. That was kinda fun. Who needs roller coasters?"

"What?" Andrea asked, confused but smiling.

"Oh, he's been trying to get me on one of his blasted roller coasters for the whole time we've been..." she faltered. "Going out? Living together? I'm not sure which comes first."

Andrea sat her back down. "This I have _got_ to hear. What on earth did that mean?"

"Well, he offered me the use of his guest room when I was between apartments and between jobs. It just sort of turned into a regular arrangement, I guess," Vanessa looked out into the trees that grew up tall and thick around the perimeter of the property, a befuddled look on her features. "He wouldn't even let me kick in for rent or utilities, damn him."

"Come on, all those years living hand to mouth and you're going to complain about that?"

"Well, yeah. It just isn't right," Vanessa protested.

Andrea shook her head. "You never did have any mercenary in you."

"I guess not," Vanessa admitted. "Anyway, he's got this thing about amusement park rides. Roller coasters specifically. And you know me -- I'd prefer to keep my feet on the ground. He's tried everything to get me to go on one of those things. I wouldn't be surprised if he tries to turn these meds I'm on to his advantage."

"Anything else I should know?" Andrea chuckled, noticing the slightly glazed look in Vanessa's eyes. She was thinking she could turn the meds to her advantage as well.

"I can't think of anything," Vanessa replied, forcing her mind to focus again, and going back to the task of standing up. This time she refused the shoulder that Andrea offered, determined to take care of herself.

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Reconnect**

It was well into the afternoon when she finally retired to her room, since she had been determined to see Nick off, Gil helping her keep her balance every step of the way. The pain meds were definitely good. Very good. When she slipped out of her robe and curled up under the blankets next to him, she slept for the first time all week.

The next morning, she was surprised to see actual sunlight streaming in through her window. She tried to roll over, forgetting about the cast that was supposed to restrict her movement for at least the next week, probably two. The bed felt different somehow. She opened her eyes and saw him laying next to her and determined to find a way to snuggle him come hell or high water.

He started awake when she moved, "do you need anything?" he asked blearily.

"Just you," she purred, scooching closer.

He rolled over and wrapped his arms around her, something that always made her feel safe. When she leaned into him and kissed his chest, he looked at her, surprised. "You're kidding," he started at her.

"Would I kid about something like that?" she asked, continuing to kiss him, her hands moving over him casually.

"But your leg," he started.

"I'm sure that two intelligent, resourceful people like us can figure a way around that," her hands slipped down to his waist. He usually slept naked, which was one of her favorite things. This morning was no exception.

"But," he stammered, looking concerned.

Her hands wound around his waist and drifted to his backside, playing his word into a pun. "Yes, Gil?" she asked.

He made a small grumbling noise in the back of his throat and leaned in to kiss her. He broke away, "what about the rest of the people here?" he asked quietly.

"What about them?" she couldn't help giggling a little at the bashful look on his face. "They should be out there covering the stuff I can't do at the moment. In all likelihood, we are perfectly alone."

He grumbled again, and she tightened her arms around him. "Hey, I could have _died_ yesterday," she pointed out with comically wide eyes. "You think I wanna go to my grave sexually frustrated?"

"You're terrible," he accused, and before she could reply, pressed his lips into hers. "Horrible. Temptress. Bad influence." Each word was punctuated by another kiss.

"Good to know I'm doing something right," she mumbled against him.

"I missed you," he went on, continuing to kiss her. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she smiled against his lips, returning his affection. "Sleeping alone sucks."

He chuckled at her, "I noticed."

**/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\**

He was sliding over her, careful to stay clear of her left leg, which had remained propped up during the night. "Oooh. Morning wood. My favorite," she laughed, feeling the heated press of his desire against her leg as he moved. Her arms went around his neck again and she caught his eyes with her own, suddenly feeling very sober. "I want you, Gil."

He sighed into her neck, whispering her name as his lips ran over her skin. The smell of her perfume invaded his senses and his hands were on her, wandering over her sides, and her breast, straying down to her legs, lingering over her hips, before reaching her center. She arched her back when he cupped her with one hand, while his lips moved away from hers to pay attention to her breasts. Then with one finger, he was tracing the outlines of the folds which shrouded the heat and desire only he could instill.

He heard her whimper his name when he teased his way into her wet center, and again when he pushed his fingers into her, stroking her clit with his thumb. The whimper became a moan as he reached for her g spot. "Gil," she warned breathlessly, "I need you," she lifted her head to look at him and almost lost her control when the movement caused her muscles to shift and tighten around the fingers that were teasing her inside and out. "We can take our time later," she growled.

It was a tone of voice he couldn't ignore. He immediately stopped what he was doing and repositioned himself between her legs, her hand moving between them to guide him into her, but not before she stroked him a few times. Her touch stole his breath and he almost collapsed onto her with a groan. Instead, he took her head between his hands, kissing her, letting go of all the desires he'd stifled over the course of a week. He pressed his tongue past her lips, drowning himself in the feel and taste of her. She gasped around his lips when she felt him enter her.

"That's it. God, you feel good," she encouraged. "Harder, Gil," her fingers were already digging into his shoulders.

He was panting into her shoulder now, increasing his pace but maintaining his steady rhythm. She was almost beyond words, her muscles were shaking, and her good leg was pressing into the small of his back, trying to indicate that she wanted him harder, and faster, she wanted him to make her see stars, to force the breath from her, to claim her and come in her, to be his, completely.

With her last few words, she whispered, "yours, Gil. Make me yours."

Her final encouragement pushed him into oblivion -- he pounded into her, harder and faster, groaning her name over and over. It was just what she wanted, passionate, animalistic sex, with the only man who had ever been able to do this to her. It wasn't long before her muscles clamped down on him and she cried out for him, her hips bucking spasmodically into his as his last few deep, hard thrusts made galaxies swim behind the darkness of her eyelids. Her back arched one final time when she felt his muscles tense, then tremble, as he came, pressing himself into her as far as he could. The muscles in her pelvis contracted, pulling every last drop from him, until he let his hips rock into her one last time, and they collapsed into each other's arms, content to lie quietly as they slipped into sleep again.

**/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\**

When she awoke, she was alone, but she could hear him rattling around in the kitchen. She could tell by the cadence of the footsteps, a particular way of closing cupboards and drawers. She could smell coffee -- it smelled like heaven. With an effort, she heaved herself upright and swung her good leg off the edge of the bed while reaching for her crutches. Then, carefully, she used her arms to lever her bad leg off the bed and just barely rest it on the floor.

It took her a moment to get the balance of the entire operation right, but soon she was off and limping, making her way to the kitchen.

Sure enough, there he was, throwing something together. When he gave the shallow pan a flip, she saw the crepe land perfectly on its other side back in the pan. _Man, I never could get the hang of that_, she grumbled to herself. She kept making her way toward the dining room table quietly, sure that if he happened to catch her, he would promptly send her back to the bedroom again.

It was a loose floorboard that gave her away with a loud creak. She stopped dead in her tracks and cringed as he turned around. She hadn't bothered to brush her hair or anything, so she still looked like a haystack shrouded in a flannel robe.

"You shouldn't lean on your crutches that way. It can cause nerve damage," was all he said, and went back to the crepes.

She pulled her head out of her shoulders and just watched him with a raised eyebrow for a minute. "What, no lecture?"

He just shrugged and dropped another round of batter into the pan.

She decided to let it go and went to the kitchen to grab coffee. Her nose hovered over the cup, "this smells better than the stuff we've been using..." she commented.

He just shrugged again, but now, standing in proximity, she could see a smirk on his face. "What have you done?" she asked. "You look like you got away with something."

He turned innocent eyes on her. "You know, if you use that look too often, I'm just going to get immune to it," she warned. They both knew it was an expression that would crumble her at the drop of a hat. To his credit, he didn't do it too often.

It was the voice from down the hall that almost made her drop her crutches in surprise. "Thanks, boss." It was Greg. Clad in jeans, a dark tee shirt slung over one shoulder, toweling his hair into its usual carefully orchestrated mess.

"I just hope you managed to pick all the lemon bits out of the tub," he replied, not looking away from the stove as the critical point for flipping the crepe quickly approached.

Vanessa gathered her wits and hobbled around Gil to face Greg. "What are you doing here?"

"Nick told us what the rations were like up here and I figured you were dying for some good coffee. Seriously, we all figured we could pitch in somehow. Catherine rearranged the schedule so that everyone had their days off consecutively so that we could come up here one at a time and help out," he smiled as he pulled the shirt on over his head. "Although with this sunshine, you may not need it for long."

She looked outside. The weather had, indeed, held for more than a few hours for the first time since she had arrived. "That remains to be seen," she squinted through the back window to the north, wondering what was happening at the higher elevations. The sun could still add to their problems if there were significant snow melt up there. Or a log jam in one of the unpopulated areas to the south. The map indicated a couple ox bows not too far from Jackpot in areas that only saw sparse human activity at the best of times, and thus, weren't monitored, making a hazard that could sneak up on the small town quickly.

Alan knocked briefly and walked in the door. "Shouldn't you be in bed?" he asked her pointedly.

"What's the word on the banks?" she returned, gimping her way to the maps on the wall to study a little more.

"Holding. Water's receding a little bit," he cast the same worried look north as she had. "According to the weather service, we should be out of the woods with the rain,"

"Hey! Does that mean I'm on vacation?" Greg piped up.

"Not by a long shot," Vanessa told him, trying not to laugh.

"Look," Alan started, "Leland's in the car, he'd like to talk to you."

She studied him carefully. "Why?" She had to admit, even though it might have been petty, that she wasn't inclined to talk to either of the men she'd found scrapping in the dirt yesterday. Or the day before. Somewhere along the lines she'd lost track of a day, she was sure.

"Vanessa, he feels terrible. Marty's another story, and he's still sitting in my holding cell, not saying a damn thing again. Please?" he asked.

"God," she grumped, hobbling to the table and setting her coffee down, then herself, finally hefting her leg up so that it rested on the table. "Fine."

Alan left to get his brother out of the car and Vanessa stifled a laugh as Greg meandered into the kitchen and snitched a strawberry out of the bowl that Gil had left by the sink. There was a sharp _thwack_ as the younger investigator got his hand smacked with a wooden spoon for his efforts. It didn't keep him from grinning as he wandered to the table to sit down. "That was so worth it," he whispered conspiratorially.

When Leland followed his brother into the front room, he was staring at his feet the entire way. The only sign that Gil had noticed either man's presence was a tightening around his shoulders as he put the finishing touches on breakfast -- folding peaches and strawberries into crepes and adding a dollop of whip cream for garnish on each plate.

Greg was just too curious to leave his spot at the table across from Vanessa.

"I uhm...know that sorry uhm..." Leland continued to look at the floor like a kid who got caught in the middle of something truly forbidden.

"Try just spitting it out, Leland," she tried to get her facial expression to mind her will, but she knew she looked and sounded like the thunder clouds that had finally seemed to pass them over.

A plate of crepes silently landed on the table in front of her and Gil went back to the kitchen to get coffee.

Leland cringed. "Sorry doesn't cut it, but its all I know to say," he told her, finally meeting her eyes.

She regarded him coolly. There was no doubt in her that his apology was sincere -- but she wanted more. "I want to know why I walked in on you two acting more like you should have been in a locker room than the two grown men I thought I was dealing with."

Alan chimed in, trying to spare his brother somewhat. "That's a long story, goes all the way back to High School, actually --"

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Reason**

"I want to hear it from him," Vanessa cut him off. Her tone had gone from cool to frosty. She nodded toward her leg, still propped up on the table, as Gil sat down beside her. "As you can see, I have nothing but time." She didn't invite either man to sit down with them and she started into her breakfast as if they weren't there, even while Leland quietly spilled the entire sordid story of the football game, and Marty's insults, and the eventual fight that had left Marty with a life long limp and a sour disposition.

She sipped her coffee. "So, you mean to tell me that this is all about some bullshit high school rivalry?"

"More or less," Leland admitted. "I was ignoring him until he brought my son into it."

"In all fairness, I warned you those two couldn't work together," Alan mumbled.

Vanessa's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?" she asked sharply. "I shouldn't be able to expect two grown men to act like it? That's ridiculous and you know it."

The room was dead silent for a moment. Vanessa broke in. "I want to hear from Marty, as well. I'll find my way to the station later."

"Good luck," Alan muttered again.

"I have nothing but time, like I said earlier."

Marty regarded her from his position on the bunk in the cell with a surly expression. Vanessa had crutched her way over to the chair Alan had set up for her a half hour before, and they'd been in the ultimate staring match ever since. She sat with her foot propped up on a TV tray, arms folded in front of her, matching his sour disposition with her own frosty one.

"I suppose you don't feel like you own any of this," she finally grated.

Marty shook his head.

"Well," she sighed and nodded decisively. "I'll just let Alan know that I'll be pressing charges, then." She took great pains to get up, making the biggest show of her infirmity as she could. And she stared at him the entire time.

Marty sat there like a rock until she turned and was almost to the door. "Its 'cause of those two bastards I got a bum leg," he replied.

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" she whirled on her crutches. "How is that an excuse for dumping me in the river when this entire town needed two grown men to do one job for two hours?"

"I can't work with him after that," Marty continued to plead his case.

Vanessa rolled her eyes. "Bullshit, Marty. That doesn't cut it and I think we both know it. I heard what was going on between you two long before I got up there. Hell, there was no way I could miss it, the way you were carrying on. And what happened twenty years ago isn't going to mean shit when I take you in front of a judge."

"Who knows what I coulda done without this leg," he replied.

"And I could have been Doris Day if I'd been born thirty years earlier. Hang it up, Marty. Get over it. I suggest you deal with here and now for a little while. Up to and including figuring out how you're going to get legal counsel." She was turning again, heading toward the door.

"But, I got a wife..." he stammered. "And kids."

"I really don't give a damn if you have purple spots and golden retrievers. Unless you have something worth my while to say, I'm done here."

"I got outta hand," he grumbled. She stood with her hand on the door, ready to leave.

Her mind was screaming to let lose with some stinging come back, but she kept her jaw locked and her words to herself. "If my kids screwed up, I'd want them to be responsible for it."

"So you better practice what you preach," she started slowly. "The only reason I paired you two up were because you were the last ones I had. I didn't do that intentionally. The resources were tapped. They'd been tapped for a while, actually. So how are you gonna show me that you learned something from what happened here?"

"I don't know."

"Well, then, you bought yourself a little more time. I'll leave you to think on that for a while. I'm not here to make peace between you and Leland -- I don't care if you two spend the rest of your lives avoiding each other. But you have interfered with the work I'm doing for this entire community, and I won't excuse that lightly. Let me know what you come up with," she told him as she opened the door and limped out into the street.

It took her twice as long as it should have to make her way from the police station to the cabin, and by the time she arrived, she was exhausted. And irritated. Mostly with the brace on her leg that kept her from making better progress. Partly with Marty. And...well...irrationally...with everyone else.

And it was Gil who took the worst of it as she hobbled up the porch then got tangled in the crutches when she tried to open the door. He opened the door with one eyebrow arched at her, not bothering to hide an expression that was somewhere between protective and entertained. "You're too stubborn for your own good," was all he said.

She rebalanced and pushed at the door with one of her crutches, giving him a look she hoped was suitably withering. The entertained expression won out for a moment on his face as he stepped aside to let her in. "Wait there. I'll get you a chair," he said. "Your right shoe is covered in mud, and so are your crutches."

She maintained her silence and her glare but stayed by the doorway while he dragged a dining room chair over and took her crutches. She bent forward to take off her shoe, but found she lacked the mobility to reach down far enough.

"Goddammit," she grumbled, fingers stretching to reach the heel of the shoe. She was actually grunting with effort before Gil came back to her.

"Want some help with that?" he asked softly.

"No," she snapped, trying to pull her leg up higher, but without the ability to counter balance with her other, she was having little luck.

He was looking positively indulgent at this point. And that was definitely laughter in his eyes. "Did you get what you needed to done?"

"We'll see," she grumbled, finally loosening the heel of the shoe with the edges of her finger tips enough to push it off the rest of the way against the leg of the chair.

"Satisfied?" he asked, helping her stand up and supporting her over to the couch, where he'd set out a cup of her favorite jasmine tea.

"What are you driving at?" she finally broke loose.

"I'm just wondering if you've proven whatever it is that you're trying to prove," he replied placidly. "You don't have to do everything on your own, you know."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

In a spate of frustration that defied words, she simply stuck her tongue out at him, and glared.

He cocked his head to the side, studying her. "What's going on? And don't tell me its nothing."

"I shouldn't be so dependent on someone else. You don't need me leaning on you all the damn time, Gil. I'm gonna get to be a pain in your ass." She still sounded angry, but at least his hunch that her anger was mostly turned toward herself had been correct.

"You're only gonna have that thing on your leg for a week or so," he reminded her. "I don't see how leaning on me for that long is going to be such a big deal."

"Its more than that," she admitted, leaning forward for her tea cup -- unsuccessfully. He reached over her leg, which was propped up on the coffee table, and handed it to her instead. Holding the mug, she stared into its contents rather than at him. "I've been worried all week that part of the reason I felt like I was in over my head was because I've gotten too used to having you around, Gil. Its just...its easier when you're around. Everything is. And I don't want to be one of those clingy little women who drive their men nuts because they can't function without them."

He laughed just a little, but enough to warrant another glare from her. "I don't think you're capable of that," he started, slipping his arm around her shoulders. I love having you with me." He pulled closer to her while she continued to stare into her tea. "And you've done your job here beautifully -- just like you always do."

"Yeah," she argued, "but how do you know that what you enjoy now is always going to be that way? Can you be sure that I'm not going to get tiresome?"

"I'm as certain as I am of anything," he replied. For a man who enjoyed knowing that he _didn't_ know everything, that was a bold statement. "Maybe your job was always this difficult, and you just didn't know any different because you carried it with you everywhere."

She glanced at him -- she hadn't turned the idea around quite that way before. Before she could respond, he continued. "And, correct me if I'm wrong, but this hasn't been typical of the work you've done before. You've had to call out favors to get people up here that you needed to get the job done. Aside from you and your colleagues, there isn't much in the way of a team for you to work with."

"I suppose that's right," she grumbled. She didn't want to waste time complaining about adverse circumstances, but the bald fact of the matter was that the situation in Jackpot was a far cry from remotely ideal. It would have challenged anyone she'd ever worked with.

"So how about you keep your feet up, drink your tea, and let someone else do the heavy lifting for a little bit?" he asked, finally. "If you start getting clingy, I'll let you know."

She looked up at him finally, and caught him smirking a little again. "But I have to tell you," his voice was quiet now, pitched so that she knew what he was saying was for her only, "I like having you lean on me. I like feeling like you need me around. I like having you close to me. And I've missed that this week." She let her head rest on his shoulder while his other arm wound around her waist. His voice dropped another notch, to almost a whisper, "I love you and I want to help you. Do you believe that?"

She nodded, leaning into his warmth and letting the world and all its problems slip away from her for a while as she watched tattered clouds scud over the horizon through the back windows.

"Okay," he finished. They spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch, looking out the windows, content just to be in the same space.

The remainder of the week passed relatively quickly. Greg stayed for two days before he headed home, and was followed by Jim. Their final visitors were Catherine and Lindsey, who stayed for another two days, helping Vanessa manage a seemingly endless list of final details -- all things that _had_ to be accomplished before she could leave Jackpot with a clear conscience.

The last of these was one more visit to Marty, whose wife had sprung him from lockup with no small amount of bitching. Thus, Vanessa found herself on the Cooperman's front porch as the hands of her watch approached sun drenched noon.

His wife, Gabrielle, met her at the door, drying her hands on a dish towel. "He's in the living room," she shot a look in his direction that told Vanessa he was no where near in her good graces again.

"Thank you," Vanessa replied quietly, limping into a room off the hall where a TV was tuned to a baseball game.

"So," she started, making him jump a little in his recliner. "You got a plan?"

"I didn't even hear you come in," he replied, a little shaken, but stepping toward her none the less.

She regarded him coolly, not making a move toward or away from him, not speaking -- just standing her ground in the silence that settled over the room.

Marty shuffled his feet. "I don't have a plan at all," he admitted finally.

"Really?" she didn't sound at all surprised.

"Leland's got a temper," he started. "I've known that all my life. I can't control that."

What had started out sounding like another excuse was beginning to take on favorable tones. "I'm glad you don't expect me to make friends," he continued.

Vanessa only nodded.

"I can't take that back," he said, looking at her leg, still trapped in the air cast. "You got hurt. We coulda fucked up the sandbagging. I don't know when I'm gonna be sleeping in my own bed again."

Vanessa thought he was kidding until she noticed the folded up blanket and pillows on the end of the couch. And still remained silent.

"I can't fix any of it. Wish I could, but I can't," he looked up at her finally. "For all of it, I'm not any better off than when I started. It wasn't worth it."

She'd watched him carefully, noting what his tone of voice and body language said as much as she considered his words. Finally she sighed and settled into her crutches. "Good."

It was all she said as she turned and went back to the front door, let herself out. Her crutches swung her over to a waiting car, and she accepted the hand Gil stretched out to pull her in without any hesitation.


	6. Part 6

** A/N: Hope folks are still reading. Reviews and stuff are always welcome. Disclaimers going in all general directions.   
**

** Part Six**

**Chapter Twenty-Six: **

_"Hola_!" Diana called as Vanessa entered the building through the double doors. In one end of the room a few teenagers were shooting hoops while closer to the stage, a small group was huddled over a book. The kitchen was open and the smell of coffee wafted out.

Vanessa greeted her steadfast volunteer with a grin and a wave, making her way to the kitchen to grab some caffeine before she took her usual spot in the folding chair behind the table, where she would first tackle the administrative nonsense that it took to keep the center up and running.

After that, who knew?

She looked over the sign in sheets, figuring she'd get the database going first since it was her least favorite task. She understood its importance -- to track how many people were utilizing the services the center had to offer, which ones were regulars, and that kind of stuff. She just hated data entry. To be perfectly blunt, it bored the pants off of her, and she couldn't fathom how some people sat behind desks in offices and did nothing but data entry for eight hours a day. In her mind, that would be a quick trip to hell.

Luckily, hers was done in about five minutes. She sipped at her coffee and went over the mail while Diana was sitting with the kids who were poring over the book. Many of the kids that came here spoke only broken English, making school difficult to say the least. With Diana's help, they were not only understanding the subjects they had to study in school, but improving their language skills. Vanessa had surveyed the teachers and the results were overwhelmingly positive.

All in all, she was satisfied as she looked around. The kids that came here in the evenings were smiling, they were healthy, they were improving in school -- and most important, they weren't heading down the same dead end path of violence and drugs that so many others were in this area. She even allowed herself a little smile. Her watch read ten o'clock. In a half hour she and Diana would round up anyone under eighteen and get them in the van and drop them off at their respective homes. The van had been a generous donation from one of the local churches. It didn't make much sense to give the kids a safe place to hang out only to have them get jumped on their way home.

Most of the mail was bills -- power, water, garbage...well, it was all worth it now that things were up and running. She was still trying to get more assistance from local charities for operating costs, but it was slow in coming. It would just be a matter of persistence, probably filling out the same paper work again and again, until it made it across the right administrator's desk. Nothing she hadn't done before.

Her thoughts turned back to the rest of her day, and she couldn't stifle the yawn when she realized that she'd already been up and running for twelve hours. Gil had gotten stuck at the lab and hadn't made it home until almost noon, but by then the phone had been ringing non stop already. Greg trying to settle a debate between Warrick and Nick about how _huevos_ translated in gutter Spanish. An acquaintance from the Temple she'd been going to on and off had called asking if she would attend her nephew's bar mitzvah. She was flattered that the woman had extended the invitation, and had replied that she would be there for as long as she dared. A couple of telemarketers, with whom she was polite but firm. Philip Gerard wanting to set up an appointment to go over the next quarter's courses on Wednesday -- there was one she couldn't get out of, even though the thought of sharing space with him turned her stomach. The man had some kind of nerve -- asked how she and Gil were doing, whether they would want to meet him for dinner sometime, and all sorts of other prattle. She hung up from that one a little more vehemently than she'd intended to.

Finally, Gil had walked in the door looking exhausted, and she turned all the ringers off, and killed the volume on the answering machine. She couldn't imagine there would be any other business that morning that someone would call her on the home line for, so the hell with them. She watched as he dropped his jacket, uncharacteristically, in a heap on the couch, then dropped himself next to it.

She went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water and took it out to him, her hands going to his shoulders and her fingers working at the knots she found. "Wanna talk about it?" she asked gently.

He just shook his head and propped his feet up on the coffee table. She just nodded and put her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder, doing her best to make sure he had something warm and comforting to come home to.

She could have dozed off like that if his pager hadn't gone off. She could tell by his body language that he was considering throwing the damn thing across the room instead of looking at the screen and almost laughed. If the people he worked with could see him like this...well. She was just as glad that there were parts of him that were reserved for her only, she decided.

"Shit," he grumbled, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his cell phone, and dialed Brass's number. "Now what?" he growled into the receiver.

She couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, except for Brass's chuckle at the way Gil had answered his call.

"Well good. Now, I don't want to hear a thing out of any of you for the next twenty four hours. No bugs. No bodies. Nothing." He said, snapping it shut and stashing it back in his jacket pocket.

"That bad?" she asked, concern tugging at the corners of her eyes.

"Mmmf," he mumbled, wandering into the kitchen, digging through the fridge for some left over take out.

"You know I could have made you something decent," she cajoled.

All she got was another "mmmf."

_Ohhh-kay. That's pretty bad_, she thought to herself, putting her arms around his waist as he dug into the Styrofoam carton.

His eyes remained distant, slightly haunted, and she finally took the carton out of his slack fingers and touched his face, encouraging him to look at her. "I love you," she told him with a kiss. "You're home, and I'm here to take care of you. I know that's something neither of us is totally used to yet, but ultimately, that's what this is about. If you don't want to talk, that's fine, but at least be here with me."

It was how she imagined it would look if a soul were to re-enter a body. His eyes refocused and his arms went around her, holding her close. She could swear he actually got warmer. The heart beat that had almost seemed distant earlier was strong again under her ear, and she sighed contentedly. "Thank you," she said softly.

They'd spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, until she'd had to get up and go to work.

She dragged herself regretfully from her day dreaming, realizing that it was close to time to load up the van.

The circuit through the neighborhood was quiet and Vanessa took the time to talk to her charges as she drove -- what were they doing in school? what's the latest on so-and-so, we haven't seen her for a while? is so-and- so still trying to get that job at that greasy spoon down the way? Against everyone's hunches to the other side, she'd managed to get into their lives and had shortly become a tentative confidante to the core group of youth who frequented the center. She observed the remaining young woman through the rear view mirror with a hint of pride, in herself, and in the kids. They had something in common after all -- people had said they'd never be able to pull this off.

_To hell with 'em_, she thought as Maria reabsorbed herself in a book under the light of the back seat. She was reading _Hamlet_, not for school, but on her personal recommendation. The school had them reading _Julius Caesar_, which Vanessa completely abhorred. If Maria could have heard the debate that had caused between her and Gil...she let go with a snort of laughter.

"_Que_?" Maria asked, looking up quickly.

"How's _Julius Caesar_ coming?"

Maria rolled her eyes, "it sucks."

Vanessa laughed again. "I couldn't stand that one, either. That's why I brought in _Hamlet _for you. You know, I argued with Gil for half a day over it? He loves _Caesar_ and I will never understand why."

"He keeps roaches for pets," Maria snorted good naturedly, "says something about his taste. He wants roaches? I got some behind the refrigerator at home. He's more than welcome to them."

"Yeah, and what would your _abuela_ have to say about that?"

"She'd probably chase him out with a broom and call him something rude," Maria supplied, both of them laughing now.

They rounded the corner and Maria stashed the book back in her bag, and with a thank you, hopped out of the van and bounded into the front door of the house she shared with her mother, father, and _abuela,_ her grandmother.

Vanessa sighed in contentment as she drove back to the center.

She'd just gotten in the door and dropped her backpack by the card table the did double duty as her desk when she heard something that sounded like a car backfiring, once, then twice. Then a third. She looked at the door and heard yelling. Then four more 'pops' in rapid succession. The entire center fell silent for a moment, then there was chaos. Vanessa heard her voice raised, but couldn't seem to feel herself speaking, as she bolted for the door. She was telling Diana to call 911. She pushed through the door and into the night, looking frantically after the dark colored car that was racing away from the center.

Further exploration revealed drops of blood. Large and almost perfectly circular at first, then, leading around the corner to the alley. She trotted along side them, and rounded the corner, finding a young man leaning up against the building, hand pressed to his side.

Closing the distance quickly, yet mindful of the drops and possible casings and bullets, she recognized the young man. Ricky. The one who'd been accused of stealing a couple months ago, and consequently acquitted when they found the grown man that actually did it. She'd felt he was a true success story in the making. The front of his white tee shirt was red, the red was everywhere she looked, coming through his fingers and dripping onto his shoes and the pavement below.

Adrenaline flooded into her, and she heard Diana approaching from behind. Using an arm to support the young man, she helped him sit down.

"Go get me some kitchen towels!" she shouted at the woman behind her. "Keep everyone else out of here!"

Then she looked at Ricky. Jesus, he looked pale. And scared. He looked so young in spite of the amateur tattoos that decorated his chest, peeking out from beneath his shirt. He'd been getting away from that crowd of no-good _pachucos_, with her help. And now, she had a feeling she knew what it had earned him.

"Slow down, Ricky. Its gonna be okay. The medics are on their way. Just relax," she kept saying, over and over, Ricky nodding at her dumbly with glassy eyes. His gaze was getting further and further away the longer she sat with him. She felt like she'd been there forever when Diana returned with the towels.

"I'm gonna hold these on the wound, Ricky. I'm going to try to slow down the bleeding, okay?" she told him quietly. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. With one hand she pulled his head around so that he was looking into her eyes. "Ricky," she shouted. His eyes opened half way. "Goddammit, Ricky, look at me," she shouted again, pressing the towels into the bleeding hole in his abdomen. "You've gotta stay with me, dude. The medics are on their way. I'm right here. Just keep looking at me, man. Keep listening."

She was rewarded with a half hearted nod, and finally heard the wail of sirens. His eyes were slipping shut again and she tapped the sides of his face, trying to make him look at her again. She caught his chin roughly in one hand, pulling his face forward while her other hand searched for a pulse. It was fluttering, so soft she could barely feel it.

She looked down at the towels, and the blood already seeping through them. "Shit," she cursed under her breath, then looked at the young man again. His eyes were open, but glassy and his gaze was far away. "Ricky!" she shouted. "Come on, dammit! They're almost here! You're gonna be okay!"

She rounded on Diana and told the other woman to stand outside the building and wait for the ambulance and direct them to the alley when they got there, mostly so that her volunteer wouldn't see her resolve breaking as she watched the kid's spirit leaving him.

The ambulance pulled up and loaded him on a stretcher, but the expression on the medics' faces was bleak. She sent Diana with them to translate for Ricky, who's English was broken at the best of times. After they left, she just sat down on the ground, in the same spot where she had tried to tend to Ricky's wounds as best she could, and laid her head down on her knees, trying to blot out the world that kept going around her, as if nothing had happened.

It wasn't long before police cars pulled up, and they found her sitting in the same spot, in the same position.

"Ma'am," a young officer touched her shoulder, "we're going to have to tape off the area. Its a crime scene."

She just looked at him blankly for a moment, then gathered her wits and stood woodenly. She nodded at the officer, and at his partner who was climbing out of the vehicle. "I'll be inside."

The rest of the evening was passed in the officiation of a crime. Paper work. Statements. Case numbers. She just wanted to hide. She'd failed. Miserably. She was supposed to protect them, to give them a better life, build their neighborhoods and communities into places where things like this didn't happen.

Sara found her in the kitchen, staring at the coffee pot like it had come from another planet. "What can you tell me about the vic?" she asked, a little brusquely.

Vanessa snapped out of her silence, and turned to the CSI. "The first thing I'll tell you is that he has a name," she bit the words off tightly. "He's Ricardo Gomez."

"Was," the CSI said.

"What do you mean, 'was'?" Vanessa shook her head, not comprehending.

"He didn't make it to the hospital."

Vanessa just stared at her blankly for a moment. It was like the other woman's words had simply bounced off of her. It couldn't be true. He'd looked at her as they were loading him into the ambulance. This wasn't right. That meant that he'd died. He was the sole wage earner in his family. He took care of his younger sister and his grandfather. He'd been saving money to bring his parents to the states. The need for money was what had driven him to the _cholo_s in the first place, not the desire to fit in or to be tough. He'd needed money, and he would get it by fair means or foul, to bring the rest of his family here. His aunt needed medical attention that wasn't available to her in the small town where he'd grown up. He couldn't be dead. Just couldn't. They were going to shock him, or do chest compressions, or something, and he'd be fine...

"I need some air," was all Vanessa managed to say before pushing past the younger woman and heading outside.

She immediately fished in her pants pocket for her cigarettes and lighter. Unfortunately, Sara was right on her heels. "I need to get a statement from you," she called.

"Get it later," Vanessa said, lighting her cigarette and taking a deep drag.

"Look, the sooner I get this over with, the sooner we can be out of each other's hair," Sara grumbled.

Vanessa rounded on her, "do you have a problem with me? Because if you do, maybe its best that someone else take my statement." It felt good to find a vent for her anger.

"That's irrelevent," the other woman persisted. "We need a statement from you."

_Keep it together, Vanessa, _the voice in her head told her, _you have to step up and deal with this. You're responsible to deal with this. Keep cool. _"I heard shots. I ran outside. I followed blood. I found Ricky. That's it. Now your turn. I'd like a statement from you. Why the attitude?" Vanessa kept her tone very even, almost mechanical.

She saw pain flicker across Sara's eyes momentarily. "No, I think you're a good match," she said sarcastically. Then the young woman turned away and walked back to the alley, camera in hand.

"Yeah, well kiss my ass, whatever that meant," Vanessa muttered in her absence, taking another drag on the cigarette. Of all the times for someone to flip her attitude, this was not it; not when she was only holding herself together by the most precarious of threads. This night couldn't be over soon enough. In fact, the second she had a chance, she was going to talk to Diana about taking the remaining kids home and just closing the doors for a while.

She smoked a second cigarette immediately after the first, and when that one was gone, she squashed it out, dropped it in the coffee can with the first, and took a deep breath, bracing herself to handle whatever came up calmly. Or at least look like she was.

When she stepped inside, she saw Brass talking to George, the property manager who had so reluctantly turned the key over to her. Brass noticed her presence and George immediately turned to her, "see what happens!" he shouted at her, stepping into her space. "See what happens when you deal with these punks? I don't know why --"

Vanessa cut him off with a look. She felt the calm settling over her like a layer of ice as she looked around the room at the police, the scared kids, the belligerent property manager, Sara standing outside the open door, snapping pictures, Nick talking to the kids. Diana had gotten a ride back to the center with a police officer. Vanessa could hear her sobbing in the kitchen: "who will tell his family?"

It took a few seconds to prioritize the chaos that surrounded her. First, she went to the kitchen. "Diana, I'll tell them. Go home. I'm going to lock up for a day after we get everyone cleared out." Diana just nodded and Vanessa beckoned to one of the officers milling around and asked him to drive Diana home.

Second, she went back to Brass and George, addressing the property manager first. "After you've finished talking to the investigators, I want you to leave. You will not raise your voice while you are here, and you will not talk about these people that way in my presence. Don't talk to the press, don't talk to anyone. Just get in your car and go. I don't want to see or hear that you've been here again. If I have to, I'll take your sad ass to court to make sure it happens."

George's face reddened, "are you threatening me?" he asked, bending at the waist to get in her face.

"No. I'm not. That's exactly what I'll do. You're nothing but a goddam slum lord anyhow, and I'm going to see you out of here if its the last thing I do. As soon as Captain Brass is through with you, you can leave."

She didn't give him time to respond, instead walking quickly over to Nick. "Do you need help with anything?" she asked, amazed at how collected she was.

Nick turned to her with surprise in his eyes and shook his head. "They're all over eighteen, and I speak Spanish well enough. It think I got it under control."

She turned to the small group that was gathered around the table and addressed them, "I know this guy -- he's not a cop. You can talk to him, we'll figure out who did this," she told them quietly, hoping to calm their fears. "I'll make sure you all get home safely after they've gotten all your statements." There were slow, unsure nods from around the group, and Nick sat down with another one some distance away from where the group was gathered to talk.

The tension and adrenaline was tensing the muscles in her back, and her perfectly straight posture as she exited the room did nothing to indicate the shaking in her limbs or the absolute overwhelming chaos that was threatening to take over her mind.

She thought she was almost through the tough part, that soon she could find a place to hide while she pulled herself together for another round. And yet, when she stepped outside and around the opposite corner of the building, one of the officers had a kid pulled up by the collar of his shirt so that his toes barely grazed the ground. The cops other hand was at the baton at his side, drawing it from his belt and raising it over his head.

"Talk to me, you little shit!" he yelled at the frightened kid.

"_No comprende...por favor..._" the kid pleaded, almost in tears.

Vanessa strode into the middle of the situation, breaking in between the officer and the young man. The stick fell sharply, catching her on the shoulder. She swore at the contact that threatened her balance, but the adrenaline in her system was sufficient to blunt the pain temporarily. She continued to assess the situation. He was one she didn't recognize as one of the center's evening regulars, but she did think that she recognized the officer. "Excuse me," she didn't raise her voice. She didn't have to. She shielded the kid with her own body, addressing the cop directly. "What the hell is this? Haven't I had enough violence around here for one night?"

"He's refusing to answer questions, ma'am," the officer told her, his tone suddenly respectful, if a little chilly.

His nametag confirmed her suspicions regarding his identity. Vanessa matched the temperature of his statement, if not the sentiment. "Fancy this. Officer Furmansky. Again. That is not the point here. The point is that you were getting ready to at least threaten this young man with a baton. The point is you had him pinned to the wall and you were shouting at him. I don't consider that to be very professional behavior."

"I found him hiding behind the dumpster, ma'am." The guy looked like he was ready to give her name, rank and serial number.

"Officer Furmansky," she said, her words clipped and precise, "you're trying my patience. Unless, of course, you can tell me what the young man did to warrant such force. I certainly don't see a weapon on him anywhere," she turned and asked the kid to turn out his pockets. He came up empty. "I believe the problem is that he does not speak English. Do you speak Spanish?"

"No, ma'am."

"And if you call me ma'am one more time..." she grumbled. "I think that the three of us should go inside. The young man can give his statement to Nick, and you and I can address your behavior with Captain Brass." She stepped aside, indicating that the officer should go first, while she walked beside the kid.

She was met at the door by George, pacing back and forth. "Brass!" Vanessa shouted, her voice carrying across the entire room. "Are you finished with him?"

At Brass's nod, she looked at George. "You can go. Now." Her tone brooked no argument, and not even George was obtuse enough to push his luck at that point. She led the kid to the group that was waiting to give their statements to the CSI, with a whispered note to him between interviews, and then called Brass and Furmansky into the kitchen, where she got each of them a cup of coffee.

"I have a problem," she started the conversation.

That was when Brass noticed that she was favoring one arm, and looked at Furmansky with a frown. Vanessa continued, noticing that her shoulder was weak more than it was painful. "Officer Furmansky was threatening the young man over there at the table. When I came between them, he struck me instead."

"With what?" Brass asked methodically.

"With his baton, which he was about to use on the young man he had pinned to the wall. On the side of the building, no witnesses." Her words were crisp and professional, but Brass knew her better than to be fooled by the exterior she presented. "And on that note," she looked at Brass, "I leave him in your capable hands. I'll be willing to give you whatever statements you need at your convenience."

Finally, she went and hid. She went up the back stairs to the small stage and hid behind its maroon curtain. It was threadbare in places, but still, for the most part, thick and plush, offering excellent cover for the moment. She sat on the dusty floor, trying to pay attention to the sounds in the main room beyond even while part of her wanted nothing more than to blot them out. Her shoulder began to ache fiercely the longer she sat there, a recoiling, buzzing pain that spiraled down the bone and back up. _Great, lightning can strike twice_, she thought bitterly, remembering the demonstration where she'd been struck on the same shoulder with a police baton twenty years ago. It wasn't broken, it was still serviceable, it just didn't particularly _like_ being of use at the moment. And it probably wouldn't for a few days, at that.

She'd only been back there for about ten minutes when she heard Nick calling her. She clenched her teeth, wondering how much longer she could keep the brave face up, wanting anything but to have to face the people that were still there. And yet, not wanting to give up her hiding place, she stood and walked down the short flight of stairs and back around the corner into the brightly lit common area.

"Yeah," she ran into him in the hall.

"Lemme see that shoulder," he led her into the kitchen.

"Its fine," she told him.

"Uh-huh. You should at least have some ice on it. You don't think its broken or dislocated?" he asked.

"No, I told you, its fine."

He proceeded to the freezer and wrapped a bag of frozen peas in a dish towel, handing it to her, looking stubborn. "Really, this isn't necessary. If it still hurts tomorrow, I'll get it checked out. Right now, there are things I should be attending to," she told him, hoping her tone was as firm.

"Grissom'll have my ass if I just let you go with that, and he's gonna be here soon enough," he told her, still holding the peas toward her.

"I hate peas," she frowned, staring at the bag. She knew she was running out of excuses.

"Then they'll be just fine for an ice pack, then, won't they?"

"Fine," she huffed, rolling her eyes and slapping the bag to her shoulder with a fleeting wince. She didn't have the energy to really argue with him. She also didn't consider a bruised shoulder high on her list of priorities. She still had to talk to Ricky's family, and she wasn't sure how she was going to do that. She turned to look at the younger investigator, "are you finished with your interviews, young man?"

"Actually, yes," he told her.

She was disappointed, hoping she'd have an excuse to get rid of him. She could feel her 'brave face' beginning to grow tight around the edges. "Look, I'm sure there's something else you need to be doing right now."

"Nope."

_Jesus jumped-up Christ in a cherry picker, what's it gonna take?_ She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, reclaiming some of the calm she'd had earlier. "So you're just going to stand here and watch me hold a bag of frozen peas on my shoulder? I should get the kids back to their homes. And I still have to talk to the family. Am I free to go at this point?"

"You are, and you aren't."

"What the hell does that mean?" she asked impatiently.

"I'm on strict orders to make you wait 'til Griss gets here. And I don't think you should drive the van with that arm."

"Oh, bullshit, Nick. I can drive one handed --"

She was cut off by raised voices at the door. Looked like she didn't have to look up Ricky's family after all. Another failure to add to this evening's growing mountain. She broke away from Nick, dropping the damn peas on the counter, and went to the door, where two officers were holding an older man back from the entrance.

She went to the man with her arms out, speaking in Spanish, "I'm so sorry. I've been trying to get out of here so I could tell you. I didn't want you to find out like this..."

The look on the man's face made her feel like she was going to throw up and she swallowed quickly to stave off the reflex. He just stared at her, helplessly. She wanted to tell him that they'd find the people who did this, except she couldn't guarantee that, and it wouldn't bring Ricky back. In fact, the whole idea of words had evaporated. There was nothing she could do to fix this. There was not a thing in the world she could do to make it right again. Instead, she took the man's arm and walked him out to the end of the sidewalk, talking to him quietly the entire way; how had he gotten there? who had told him? She felt the weight settling over her shoulders as he replied, like one of those lead aprons they make you wear for x-rays, only this wouldn't be coming off any time soon. If ever. Finally, she led him back inside and fixed up a chair for him by the rest of the kids, and stepped back into the kitchen, where Nick was still waiting for her. With the peas in hand.

She grumbled as he tugged at the collar of her shirt to inspect the damage. There was a blackish-purple bruise, raised in a hard lump in the middle, on the edge of her shoulder, but nothing worse. "See, I told you it was nothing," she told him.

"Just keep the ice on it," he frowned. "You might need to keep it in a sling for a little bit."

She snorted. "I have better things to do than play Camille because of a bruise," she walked out of the kitchen toward Brass, who had officially sent Furmansky home for the evening so that they could sort out what happened after they got the tangle of the drive by shooting sorted out. Or, at the very least, manageable. Officer Furmansky had not gone gently, but he _had_ gone.

"Do you need anything?" she asked flatly.

"No. I think we've done all we can for now. Are you going to lock up?"

"Yeah, as soon as I get them home," she indicated the group. They looked tired, the same as everyone else. She had finally gotten so tired that she _couldn't_ feel anymore, and in many ways, that was a blessing.

"Let us handle that," Brass looked at her with concern. "Besides, I'm under the same orders as Nick and I just saw him pull up."

She looked through the propped open doors toward the parking lot. "He shouldn't be here. He can't touch this with a ten foot pole without getting a raft of shit for it."

"I don't think he's here to supervise," Brass said, laying his hand on her good shoulder.

"Huh?" she looked at him stupidly.

"Look. I'll have Nick drive the van and he'll get everyone home in one piece. When he gets back, I'm sending you home. You'll have to lock up for a day or two, at least, so get some rest."

"Rest? That's the best joke I heard all year, Jim." She watched Gil come up the steps and into the room, not even pausing until he got to her side. It took him a second to take in the calm, collected facade she'd wrapped herself in, and understood. "All right, Jim. Whatever. But I'm staying here until Nick gets back and I know everyone is safe." With that she turned away from both of them and went to the 'desk', flopped down, and watched as everyone left, shuffling out the door and to the van. She kept staring until she heard the slide and slam of the door, the ignition turn over, and finally the fading sound of the engine.

Well, everyone but Gil. He was walking toward her, pulling a chair over with a loud metallic scrape as the legs crossed the floor, and just sitting there, not saying a thing, knowing from hard experience that it was the distance she had imposed on herself that was keeping her from losing it. They sat there in complete silence until the van returned and Nick handed her keys back over before he headed back to the lab.

Then they still sat there. Hard telling how long she would have sat there, staring into space while she adjusted to the added weight on her shoulders, numb mentally and emotionally, if he hadn't pulled her to her feet and walked her out the door, locking up behind them.

He wasn't even going to ask if she was okay -- he knew better than that already. He could tell by the lines that had materialized around her eyes in the few hours since she'd left for the center. He could tell by the way she was carrying herself, ram-rod straight, yet heavy, as if every movement, right down to breathing and blinking, was an effort. She was definitely not okay.

It took a half hour to get home only because he seemed to hit every light on red. By the time they got to the last one, he was drumming his fingers on the wheel and swearing. If she noticed any of it, she didn't let on. She looked almost catatonic.

She proved that theory wrong rapidly, though. He'd gotten her out of her clothes, inspected the bruise for himself, and settled her into bed, then headed out to the kitchen to make a couple phone calls, when a sound caught his attention. A cough. Just one, and that faint. But it had a tight, almost strained and unwilling sound to it that made him set the receiver back in the cradle and head back to the bedroom.

Halfway down the hall he could clearly hear her throwing up, but when he got to the doorway of the master bathroom, she'd looked at him in horror and reached over to close the door in his face. He heard a few more barking coughs, then the toilet flushed and the tap was turned on.

When she opened the door he was still standing there, still gaping at the opening where the door had impeded him. Then he was gaping at her. She looked like a ghost. There were dark smudges under her eyes, which were red and puffy. She was shaking visibly now, no longer able to keep up a front of calm.

"Go away," she told him softly, padding out the door and to the guest room.

"Where are you going?" he followed her carefully.

"I'm not going to throw you out of your own bed. Therefore, I'm going to sleep in the guest room. Go away," she said as if she were simply telling him the sky was blue.

"There's no need for that, you know," he followed her into the guest room and watched as she turned back the blankets.

"Yes, there is. I need to figure out how I'm going to deal with this," her tone hadn't changed a bit, and he was beginning to find it a bit disturbing.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I'm responsible for this mess. I need to figure it out. I broke it, I have to own it." She sat down on the edge of the bed and swung her legs in woodenly.

"So you don't think you need to be alone for you. You think you should be alone for everyone else," he leaned against the door frame with his arms folded over his chest.

"Pretty much," she replied, settling in.

He still had a bad feeling that he was only getting part of the story. He knew there were things she hadn't told him, details she had purposefully left sketchy regarding her past. He'd done the same thing. This, somehow, was different. He studied her carefully, noting her posture (which was stiff), her breathing (rapid and shallow), her voice (flat). One side of his mind told him to leave her be, let her work through it, respect her space. The other side advised a bit more daring move -- one he wasn't sure he would appreciate if he were in the same position. At the same time he knew that part of the reason he was considered dysfunctional by the people around him was because he'd done exactly what she was doing so many times: dealing with pain by bottling it. Saving it for a rainy day, when it would be more convenient to deal with it. She was good at it, just like he was.

The question remained. Leave her alone? Or break in on her space and see what happens? What's the worst that could happen? He didn't know. He supposed she might lash out and slap the hell out of him, but that seemed unlikely. She could get pissed and yell, which would suck for the short term at least. He couldn't really see her leaving. For starters, she was too tired. By the time she actually got to packing her stuff, she'd have had time to cool off. Hopefully.

He considered calling someone, but thought better of it. If she thought he was airing her dirty laundry, then she might not cool off. Worse yet, she could just shut down.

"Close the door behind you," she told him, pulling the blankets over her head.

And yet she could still feel him standing there, long after her not so subtle suggestion. "Are you just going to stand there all day?" she tried to sound gruff, but it wasn't working so well anymore.

"No," he started, stepping into the room. She felt the edge of the bed sink a little under his weight when he sat down and stifled a groan. The last thing she needed on her conscience was screwing things up with him, too.

"You're going to _sit_ there all day?" she ventured, sprawling out in an effort to take up more room and hopefully scoot him off the bed.

"I'm not planning on it."

"Then _what_? What is it that you want, so that I can get you to _go away_?"

"Well, for starters, I'd like to see you sleeping in _our_ bed, instead of hiding."

"What do you mean --" she almost said _our bed_, instead finishing with, "hiding?"

"Look," he let his hand rest on what he thought was her arm, since she was totally hidden in a nest of blankets. "I can't do what I know best to help you with this -- that would be to work the case. So you're just going to have to deal with me fumbling around..." he found himself at a loss for words.

She snorted derisively. It was a harsh noise that actually made him flinch. It echoed in the room for a moment, or maybe that was just his imagination. "There's nothing that's going to give him his life back. Its still on my head. So what the fuck, Gil. What the fuck can you do. Same thing I can do. Nothing."

"What do you mean, 'its on your head?' " he asked, curious.

"I mean, its my program. I encouraged him to work on something besides getting into trouble. I told him he could get out. And now he's dead because of it. Do you think I don't have any idea who was behind it? I'm not that stupid. It was one of those _pachucos_; worthless, stinking shits. But its still my fault because I should have known better what would happen. I should have been more careful. I should have been standing around outside like I usually am --"

He cut her off, pulling the blankets rudely away from her face. "What do you mean you should have been out there?"

"I mean, if I'd been standing there, there would have been a witness, and they would have just driven by without doing anything."

"Vanessa, you're delusional. Do you know that?" He yanked the covers off and reached down to pick her up. Instead of a loving embrace, he heaved her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. "Do you really think they would have just driven by? No, they'd have shot you, too, without thinking twice."

"What-the-hell-ever," she puffed, his shoulder digging into her diaphragm making it hard to talk. "You think this is a John Wayne movie or something? You think you're taking Maureen O'Hara back to the homestead by main force?" He dumped her unceremoniously on the bed in the master bedroom.

"Better than Cagney -- you'd have a grapefruit in the face by now. You didn't answer my question."

She stood up and looked toward the doorway, but he was blocking her way. "Kind of hard to answer questions when you're being dragged kicking and screaming from the first moment of privacy you thought you had all night. Is that a tactic you use in all your interrogations, or am I special?"

He was actually glad to see her angry, to hear her start to yell at him, instead of just laying there like she didn't give a shit about anything when he knew perfectly well that was anything but the truth.

"You really don't think they'd have shot at you, do you?" he asked, his eyes wide.

"I suppose they could have," she snapped, looking for a way to dodge around him in the doorway and not finding it. "So what if they did?"

"Then you'd be dead, too," he was a little surprised to find himself shouting right back at her. "You think that wouldn't have affected anyone? Who would have caught up with Furmansky in time to help that kid? You think anyone else would have cut in the way you did? You think I want to go back to sleeping alone?"

"Oh, cut the crap, Gil. I didn't do enough, I didn't do anything fast enough, I fucked it up, and I know it. You know it. That in itself should be enough to make you seriously question whether or not I'm worth your time and energy." There was still a piece of her trying to keep her temper in check, but it was losing quickly. The part of her that was winning was intent on pushing every button he had to get him to back off and let her fall into the old self destructive pattern of hiding and burying herself in work to get away from what she thought of as her gravest failures.

"Really? So if I fuck up at work I wouldn't be good enough for you anymore, is that it? And that's all there is to you, right? Your work?"

Unable to find a suitably scathing reply, she went for the 'big guns.' She turned her back on him and stared at the window. She knew this went back to his childhood -- in a house with a deaf person, turning your back was the ultimate insult.

There was total silence in the room for a moment, and in that moment, she figured she'd sealed it. She'd fucked up with him, too. She cursed herself for not being able to get a damn thing right as early morning light peeked in around the sides of the heavy drapes.

He might have gone for it, too; it had been like a slap in the face to see her back like that. Different than when she'd closed the bathroom door in his face -- then she simply hadn't wanted him to see her. Now, though. This was different. She was consciously cutting him out, throwing up walls again. Then he saw the slump of her shoulders, and it told him something different.

All that in a matter of seconds, and the decision he'd been fighting with when he'd followed her into the guest room was made for him. He crossed the room and grabbed her arm, spinning her to face him, holding her there. "Answer the question, Vanessa." His voice was quiet, but his eyes were boring into her and she tried half-heartedly to squirm out from under his gaze and out of his grasp. "If something happened at the lab, or out in the field, would you still think I'm worth your 'time and energy'?"

She winced -- throwing her own words in her face. And this time there was no squirming, no ducking, no hiding. "God forbid," she said quietly, figuring she'd had enough bad luck lately, and not to call any on him. It was silly. It was superstitious. It was also something she'd 'inherited' from the women at the Temple where she'd studied while she was in college.

She looked away, at the floor, at the bed, at anything but him. He was still waiting for her answer, though. "You know better." She almost spoke in a whisper. "You know that I would love you, for you, no matter what. Its just...different..."

"No, its not," he started, watching the shift in her body language, from defiant and angry to bone-weary. "Its not any different. I haven't let you into my life because you're a particularly fascinating specimen that I have to study. You are worth more than a job title. God knows I don't keep you for the impressive pay checks you get," he tried joking a little at the last.

"Good to know you aren't waiting around for a sugar mama," she shot back.

"Okay...the point is that I admire and respect and love you for lots of reasons, not just because of your job, or because you're good in the kitchen, or because you've been studying up on your entomology when you think I'm not looking. I don't expect you to be perfect. I just expect you to be yourself, and to not hide from me like this."

She stared at him with her mouth hanging open. "Its not my fault the book was just sitting there --"

He looked at her and smiled faintly, a little pleased with himself for derailing her so thoroughly. "You expect me to believe that when I've been reading your articles and papers wherever I can find them?" If possible, her jaw dropped even further and her eyes got huge. "What? I hadn't considered the intricacies religion imposed on the civil rights movement before," he was referring to one of her earliest publications -- pre-doctorate work. And he was so...non-chalant about the whole thing. It would have been maddening if she could just focus. He was moving toward the bed, pulling the comforter back then the blankets and sheet. He looked over his shoulder at her, "now will you please come to bed with me?"

Goddammit. He looked so blasted sweet, asking her to come to bed, flattering her outrageously about her early research. "Fine," she rolled her eyes and hoped she sounded grumpy about the whole thing.

"Good," he said lightly, stripping before he crawled into bed. He pulled her close and felt her shaking with fatigue and anxiety. "I'd also appreciate it if you'd get your shoulder looked at by a doctor tomorrow."

"Will you settle for Doc Robbins?" she asked in a resigned tone of voice.

"We'll see."

She put her head on his shoulder and settled in next to him, heaving a huge sigh. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

She had settled into his embrace, but sleep was impossible. Her mind just kept rehashing the night's events, pinning down all the places where she could have done something differently, where she could have been more effective. Where Ricky didn't end up dead. And that was the bottom line, wasn't it? The kid had told her why he couldn't get away from the group he was running with, why it wasn't so easy, and she'd pushed him. So he was dead, and it was her fault. He'd been counting on her protection, and she hadn't been up to the task.

Eight hours after she'd curled up in bed, she still hadn't slept. Wondering if she was just working on a lost cause, and she was too stupid and stubborn to know it yet. Desperately wishing she could let herself break down, but purely unable to. Maybe, just maybe, she was in over her head with this one, and that didn't sit well at all with her.

She sighed heavily and rolled onto her back, punching the pillow for good measure. She had allowed herself to be fascinated with the way the light shifted in the room as the day progressed. Now, in the afternoon, it was much softer than before. It was amazing what one could come up with when one really didn't want to think...

When she shifted, he shifted with her, rolling onto his side with one arm slung over her waist. Even while she was flattered by the almost protectiveness of the unconscious gesture, she found herself irritated by the impingement on her space. With everything he'd said before bed, she still felt tainted somehow; like she was no longer good enough. No longer deserved anything, least of all this.

Outside, a car backfired and she jumped, reaching for her clothes without thinking. She was halfway dressed and almost out the door before he caught up with her, pulling her back by her arm again, back into his embrace, and reality intruded on her instinct.

"Who'd have thought a woman your age could move that fast?" he teased a little.

"Who'd have thought a guy your age could catch me?" she tried to tease back.

"Wait a minute," he started, tipping her head so that their eyes met with his fingers at her jaw. "You thought you heard gunfire and you were going to run right into the middle of it again. I thought we discussed that last night."

"Yeah, well, if you don't mind, last night is a bit hazy for me at the moment. Besides, that's a discussion we had long before this, mister 'I-just-wanted-to-talk-to-the-serial-killer.' Both of us have certain dangers inherent with our jobs. This is one of mine. And you know I can't stand back from it. Especially when its my fault," she replied.

Three weeks since the shooting. The funeral services were long since passed. The center had opened its doors again. She'd held a town hall type meeting to alleviate the fears that many people had about her involvement in the community, especially with the police brutality charge that had come out of the whole thing. She'd given a hell of a good speech about starting a neighborhood watch program, and being proactive about the gang problem in the area rather than hiding from it. Of course, she'd thrown up before she addressed the crowd; he was coming to understand that was par for the course, though.

Three weeks of putting on a brave face for everyone. Pretending to be herself, and doing a damn good job of it by just about anyone else's standards. They didn't notice how her clothes started to fit just a little looser on her. Or the dashes of make up she threw on daily now to pull attention away from eyes that were becoming dark and puffy from lack of sleep. They also didn't know the only time she ate was when he stood over her and nagged her to it, and that she only slept three or four fitful hours at a time. They had no idea how she had pulled herself away from everyone and everything; how in three weeks she had shrugged off every overture he had made, pretended to laugh at his jokes, and only been with him in the strictest physical sense that she occupied space that was occasionally close to his.

She had spent much of the time lost in work; researching the local gangs so she could understand the dynamic involved there. She was working on helping the family stay on their feet financially, and to scrape together funding to bring Ricky's aunt to the states for treatment. And sometimes, when she couldn't find anything else to do (the house had _never_ been this clean), she just closed herself off, staring out the windows for hours on end.

The case progressed slowly without any witnesses. It was almost dead when one of the bullets matched up with a shooting across town.

It was Catherine who stopped by his office that night to give him the news; she was almost glowing. "Gil, I think we have a lead on the drive by at the center! Brass is bringing the guy in now."

"How do you know?" he watched her carefully.

"Jesus, Gil. You look like shit. Has anyone told you that lately?" she stepped inside to look at him more closely under the limited light of his desk lamp.

"No, but thank you for being your usual observant self," he replied dryly. "Now, how do you know?"

"The drive by across town? The one Warrick was on? The bullet matched, and I mean perfectly. What's been bugging you?" she pressed, sitting down in one of the chairs and leaning forward on his desk. "You haven't been sleeping well, I can tell that much."

"How'd you come up with that?" he mumbled, scratching his signature at the bottom of a requisition and placing it in the outbox.

"Look. You don't need to get snippy. Or any snippier than you have been. I just wanna know what's going on."

"Its nothing." Open another envelope. Read the garbage inside. Toss it in the recycle bin. Automatic. Piece of cake.

"Gil," her voice went down in pitch, somewhere between threatening and cajoling.

"I've been snippy?" he looked up, honestly surprised.

"You've been awful. Everyone would be a damn sight happier if you just stayed in your office and let me hand out assignments so they don't have to deal with you. Luckily, you also have a very loyal following, and even while they don't want to pester the bear, they're worried about you. Like always." The last statement had a smug ring to it.

He appeared to really give the matter some thought. "Has Vanessa seemed...off...to you since the shooting?" he asked, hedging around taking her into his confidence. He felt like a heel doing so, knew that Vanessa -- even when she was in her right mind, which she wasn't at the moment -- would think of it as airing her dirty laundry. But he didn't know what else to do.

"Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise, huh? How do you mean, 'off'?"

"I was just wondering if you'd noticed anything. Or if anyone else had."

"Brass thought maybe she changed her hair after breakfast the other day. She wasn't eating much, though..." Catherine let her mind wander a little. Her eyes narrowed at the same time they almost lit up as she put the pieces together. "How long?"

"How long what?"

"How long has she been like this? Since the shooting, Gil? I know she's not eating, and what Brass noticed was weight loss, not a change in her hair. I know she's enough like you to put up with you. And I think I have a pretty clear hunch how you'd respond to something like that. So let me take a wild guess. She's not sleeping either? That's why she's been wearing makeup lately...what else is going on?"

"I don't know what the hell to do anymore, Cath. We actually had a fight that first night when I got her home, and I thought she was...comfortable enough, I guess, to talk about things. Or just let me comfort her. But she's just closed up. She put those walls back up and she thinks its her fault. I don't know how many more ways I can tell her it isn't."

"Well, isn't this something. Gil Grissom with woman troubles," she couldn't resist the urge to needle him a little. "How closed up?" Catherine's blunt tone and the way she met his eyes dead on told him exactly what she was talking about. And it was something he definitely wasn't cozy talking about.

"Three weeks?" she asked, eyebrows raised, when she saw the indecision on his face.

He just nodded. She'd never seen him so miserable. Stunning how these two people managed to put up such a front for everyone else. Vanessa had certainly had the team pretty well fooled. They knew something was up with Gil, but as usual, no one was sure what or how to approach him about it. Now that she was in his office, catching him at the edge of an unguarded moment, it was all starting to fit together.

"Three weeks," she said again, shaking her head.

"I feel like I'm invading her space if I so much as touch her."

The look on his face made her stomach do a little flip, and she felt a momentary flash of anger at Vanessa for the state she now found her best friend in. "Go get her," Catherine said, finally, weighing out the pros and cons. "She can see the guy get hauled in. Maybe that will help. And if it doesn't...I have some other ideas."

He looked at her, questioning. "Go! Jesus, do I need to shock you?" she stood up and grabbed his jacket and his keys and handed them to him. Greg was the only one that saw her practically shoving him out the door, after he had heard most of the conversation. He had a legitimate reason to be standing outside the boss's door -- he had lab results and he wasn't sure how to pursue the next step. So he'd heard a little here and a little there...okay, he'd heard most of it, truth be told.

It was enough to give him a hunch about why Sara's mood had been in the toilet off and on for the last three weeks. And since Grissom was gone, he thought maybe he should track her down and talk to her.

Gil arrived home to find Vanessa sitting at the computer, pretty much the way he had left her earlier. _To hell with walls_, he told himself as he sat down inches away from her, pretending not to notice how she flinched a little when he scooted the chair even closer so that he could put his arm around her shoulders.

"They caught the guy who did it," he told her softly, leaning forward to see her expression. "He's being brought in right now." He hesitated for a moment, "would it help you through some of this to see him?"

She leaned forward and buried her head in her hands. "I don't know. I'm not finding anything new here," her eyes sought his as she turned around, "I wish I could put this whole thing to bed. I really do. But I can't. Every time I try, it comes back. I hear someone shouting, or I hear a car backfire, and its back. I'm doing the only thing I know how to, and its hurting you. I don't like it, but I can't seem to stop." She shook her head. "You should get smart and kick me to the curb, you know."

He just stared at her in shock -- there was no trace of joking in her voice. She really believed what she'd said.

"Come on," he told her steadily. "Get yourself fixed up and let's head down to the station. We can deal with the rest later. We oughtta have Doc check out your shoulder one more time, anyhow."

"Gil, the shoulder is fine," she told him as she moved to the bathroom. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you that. It isn't like I haven't been smacked with a baton before -- worse than this, in fact."

This was the most direct reference she'd made to it with him, and he stared after her in curiosity, sure that it was just lack of sleep making her forget to gauge her words correctly.

Thinking he might get something out of it, though, he followed her and decided to do a little research. "You mentioned that once before. What happened?"

She was brushing her teeth and glanced at him behind her in the mirror and shrugged. "Ih vwuf a ong gime ago," she said around the tooth brush.

He smiled a little, glad that it looked like he was going to get an answer, and at the ridiculous way she sounded with her mouth full of tooth paste. "What was that?"

She finished her routine, dabbing a little more blush on her cheeks as she gave herself one final critique, then headed through the door to find her wallet and other essentials. "It was a long time ago, that's all. I was in a demonstration, and I stepped between an officer and another protestor, so I took the hit. At least Furmansky tried to pull his shot when I stepped up. The last guy was out for blood, let me tell you. There was tear gas and sticks and rocks being thrown...the whole thing went out of control. Prime example of a social pendulum."

"That's it? What were you protesting?"

"Apartheid. It started out as a college demonstration, but it took on a life of its own once it started moving. Apparently we'd gotten the word out a little too well -- people were plenty fired up, but they had no direction when it came time to channel that anger. Then there were the usual yahoos who just wanted to get some attention. They were really out of control. Drunk, setting fires." she shook her head. "That shoulder still hurts when the weather shifts," she grimaced, flexing the muscle a little with a slow, rotating movement.

Their conversation was easier than it had been, but there was still a distant quality to it, and soon, they found silence preferable on the way back to the lab. He could see out of the corner of his eye that she was setting her posture and putting on her 'public face' so that no one at the lab would think anything was wrong. He would have liked to think that didn't include him, but he was more and more afraid that it did. A thought that left him wondering how much longer she could hang on to what had happened and take responsibility for it without either having a breakdown or disappearing altogether.

"Hey, Sara," Greg wandered into the break room, snagging a donut from the counter. "Got a minute?"

"Sure," she replied lightly. "What do ya need?" Sounded like an okay mood. That was reassuring.

"Well, actually, its not really work stuff," he said, finding himself gazing at his shoes. A pair of almost worn out Converse that he'd refused to throw away time and time again. They were just getting to the truly comfortable point, after all.

"Oh, Greg," she shook her head, "I'm not real good with personal stuff. I mean, I'll listen, and I'll do what I can, but you shouldn't take what I say too seriously."

"That's okay. Not about me," he plopped down in a chair.

"Okay, let's have it." She was suspicious now.

"Well, I was just thinking. You know how you said, in your counseling sessions, you figured out that you look for approval..."

The woman grumbled. "Is this about Grissom?"

"Yeah, actually, it is. You've been really upset the last few weeks, and I'm not sure I understand why. I mean, you had that whole thing figured out, right? So what's with the attitude?" Greg asked.

Greg could get away with having a conversation like this where as no one else on the face of the planet could; mostly because he was sitting back in baggy jeans and a Spongebob tee-shirt with his feet up on the table, in that dilapidated pair of sneakers, powdered sugar from his donut sprinkling the front of him. Between that and the hair, and just him being him...he got away with a lot.

She looked down the hall in both directions before answering. "I did have it figured out -- I do, I mean. Its just...sometimes it doesn't make it any easier, you know? I was kinda having problems with it that night that I got dispatched to the center, and I took it out on Vanessa. You'd think those two were cut from the same mold. Here she was, dealing with a drive by, officers tracking in and out of her space, scared kids, scared grown ups, and she was almost...Zen...about the whole thing. She was so calm, it was like none of what was happening was touching her. She just kept moving from group to group setting things right again...anyway, I'm sure she told him. I'm not exactly excited about dealing with how I acted, so I've been trying to avoid him."

Greg could see where she was going. He'd heard people, all of them at one time or another, bitch about how detached their boss was. And that was putting it nicely. Now Sara had been comparing Vanessa to him in that same capacity. He didn't know her, or their boss, for that matter, as well as some others, but his sense of people was rarely off, and he shook his head, knowing they couldn't be further from the truth. It was exactly how deeply the situation affected them that caused them to recoil like that. The worse it was, the deeper they hid. And Vanessa had been in hiding for three weeks now. Not good.

"Sara, I shouldn't be telling you this, but I overheard Catherine and Grissom talking about Vanessa --"

"I really don't wanna hear about what domestic bliss characterizes their lives together," she cut him off, sounding tired.

"No. Its not like that. Grissom's miserable, Vanessa isn't sleeping, she's barely eating...remember how he was nagging her last time we were out at breakfast? He had to drag her out of the house for that. I don't mean to be rude here, Sara, but I think you really owe her an apology."

"She's not eating because I made some off hand remark?" Sara replied.

"No, I just think you don't know him as well as you'd like to think, and that you should cut her some slack. Cut yourself some, too, while you're at it." He shrugged and left it at that, topping off his coffee and leaving her to think.

Sara was still sitting in the break room, chewing over what Greg had told her, when Grissom led Vanessa into the break room and pressed a doughnut into her hand, with promises of some of Greg's special stash of coffee if she actually ate it.

"Fine." She grumbled, settling into a chair.

He almost said something, probably something caustic by the look on his face, and thought better of it. Sara had settled into the couch, reclining into the corner, out of their direct line of sight. Instead, he settled for sitting down next to her. The sigh that came from him sounded bone weary. "Please, Vanessa. What have you lost? About ten pounds?"

She stared at the doughnut. Her stomach flipped and she set it down on a napkin. "Can't we just get this the hell over with?" she growled. "Why the hell can't you get smart and get the hell away from me?"

Sara felt a little voyeuristic from her position on the couch, but she was trapped. If she moved, and they realized she'd been there for the whole exchange, it would just make things worse. There was also a piece of her that felt drawn to hear this.

"We've been over this. A million times. I'm not going anywhere. You aren't terminally flawed. Shit happened, and there's nothing anyone can do to fix it, not even you offering yourself up as a sacrifice to whatever ideal you think you need to measure up to. Eat the damn doughnut."

She hesitantly broke a piece off and popped it into her mouth, mechanically, mostly because she didn't have the energy to argue with him about it anymore. Neither of them did, but he kept right on pushing her anyhow, even after she'd convinced herself that she didn't give a shit what happened to her anymore. She figured he would get sick of her and take off, and the better she was able to expedite that process, the better off she would be. So she'd sunk into being a complete bitch.

It wasn't working. Which just made it worse. His pager went off and he glanced at the screen. "We should go to the waiting room at the end of the hall." He gently pulled her to her feet, arm around her shoulder, and snagged the doughnut in its napkin from the table, the stubborn set to his face making it obvious that she was going to have to choke back every last bite before he'd quit.

Sara, intrigued now, followed them from a discreet distance. If asked, she would have admitted to a little bit of masochism in her actions. Pouring salt on the wound so that it wouldn't burn so bad by comparison later. Cauterizing it. She'd gotten a glimpse of what Greg had been trying to tell her. The 'evidence' was there, and she couldn't just ignore it.

She watched as they sat down, how his arm never left her shoulders, how she pretended she didn't need him, and yet how her eyes were now anxiously moving over the hallway, looking for the face of the person who had shot Ricky almost a month ago.

Then, there was Brass, two officers leading a boy down the hall in hand cuffs.

Vanessa's mouth hung open. "God, Gil, he's just a kid! How? Why?" There were too many questions crammed into her head at once, and she trailed off rather than try to verbalize the mess.

He shrugged. He'd purposely remained out of the loop on the details of the case. It would have been too tempting to use them to try to help her resolve the problems she'd been dealing with. "Judging by the lack of body art? New gang member?" he hazarded.

"But..." she was leaning forward in her seat, she wanted to chase the four of them as they walked briskly down the hall, where a police car would be waiting to take the 'perp' to a juvenile detention center. "He's just a kid..." she mumbled as she saw them move out doors, her gaze dropping to her hands. "What is he, sixteen? This is ridiculous! Is there any way I can talk to him? I want to know why," she already knew the answer. Until the trial, she couldn't have any contact with him. After the trial, it was dubious. The privacy of the young, who didn't always make the best decisions, was protected by the court system.

"You'd have to talk to the advocate, but I doubt it." He told her truthfully.

"That's two lives ruined," Vanessa shook her head.

"Four." He mumbled.

"What do you mean, four? Do you need new glasses?" she scowled.

"I mean, four lives. Its ruining you. Do you think I'm just a spectator to that?"

"I told you to get smart --" she started.

"Then I'm the stupidest son of a bitch on the planet and I'm going to stay that way," he cut her off sharply, his posture almost belligerent, twisting in his seat so that he was facing away from her. And yet, he was still leaning into her. Distancing himself, and still reaching out.

Sara caught herself wondering for how many and how often he'd done that at the lab. And Vanessa, cut from the same cloth. The calm exterior was only that -- a facade that hid everything from everyone, while the instinct to help others was obviously pushing her to want to help this kid, even though he'd shot at one of 'her kids,' as she called them. She'd seen them both in an unguarded moment. While she felt a little guilty for eavesdropping, it was her own attitude that made her cringe.

Nick came around the corner, case file still in hand, wanting to give Grissom an update on what had transpired. He waved at her briefly, then started down the hall to take the file to Grissom's office.

"He's not there," she said quietly, indicating the waiting room, and then walking away to think in peace.

Nick frowned in confusion for a moment, then stepped into the waiting room. Vanessa was sitting in one of the black chairs that flanked the vending machines, staring vacantly at her hands. Grissom had his arm around her shoulders.

"I know this is for Catherine to sign off on," he started. "But I thought you should know that he came clean, told us who was driving the car, everything. Its gonna be a slam dunk in court."

"Thank you," Grissom said quietly, hoping that Nick would leave quickly, so that he could help Vanessa back out to the car without being rude or completely humiliating her. The shock of losing Ricky had been harsh. The fact that the killer had been so young renewed and amplified the pain for her.

Before Gil could expedite matters, she looked up at him, and he groaned inwardly, "what will happen to him?"

Nick spoke up, not noticing the faint admonishing expression that crossed Gil's face. "He'll be in juvenile hall until he's twenty-one. That's about six years."

"You mean he isn't even old enough to drive? How does the juvenile system work here?" She started firing questions.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Nick started. Gil was trying to stop the conversation and get Vanessa to stand up, even though it felt like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders to hear her voice again -- her normal, vibrant alto instead of the hollow thing that had been coming out of her for the last few weeks.

"What's the rate of recidivism, in your opinion? The stats are impossible, so I need to hear from someone who sees it."

"The stats?"

"Yeah. Because records are expunged after age twenty-one in almost all cases, there's almost no way of tracking a juvenile history unless extensive interviews are done on adult inmates. That's a tough thing to venture into. I mean, after all, if we prove that the prison industrial complex isn't effective, the tax payers might just get ticked, and the fat cats who run those places wouldn't have such a cush time of it..."

"Wow. I'm sorry Vanessa, you're gonna have to let me think about that one," Nick answered sincerely.

"What I want to know, is whether or not that kid is going to come out of his sentence with the tools necessary to function in the world as an adult, or will he just have a head full of rage and better ways to not get caught?"

"You'd have to talk to Warrick about that, I think," Nick answered. "He's handled a few juvenile cases, kept tabs on one of them. I really need to get this signed," he said as he left the room, finally having caught Gil's intent.

"Hey," Gil whispered in her ear, now, leaning close enough to smell her. At least she'd still smelled the way she ought to the last few weeks -- otherwise he wasn't sure if he'd have recognized her. "Why don't we go home."

She turned and looked at him, and nodded slightly.

In the car, she threw on a CD: piano; Mozart and Beethoven. She was analyzing the hell out of something. But she was also absently picking at the doughnut, now. Either biology was taking over while her mind was elsewhere, or maybe, hopefully, she was pulling out of this.

Gil called out that night, choosing instead to spend it curled up on the couch with Vanessa, who was going back through a well worn copy of a book about American prisons and the history of them. Her glasses had slid down her nose and she was tentatively chewing on the cap of her pen.

He could feel the knots in her shoulders against his chest where she was leaning into him. He shook his head, put his journal down on the arm of the couch, and took off his glasses before reaching over to run his hand up and down her arm.

She jumped a little at first, but instead of stopping, he kept going, and soon she was relaxing a little, settling back into him with a soft sigh and closing her eyes. Encouraged, he leaned in and kissed the back of her neck.

She sat up, moving away from him. _Shit!_ he thought in frustration, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to keep from actually saying the rest of what he was thinking. He didn't see her set her book down with the pen between the pages, marking her spot. All he noticed was that she was twisting in the seat next to him, presumably ending what little contact he'd made as she had done so many times recently; presumably to go outside and smoke, which she'd been doing almost constantly. He was pretty sure it was another effort at pushing his buttons, forcing his hand to make her leave. Well, he was damned if he was going to play along with that.

But, the leather of the couch didn't creak under her weight as if she were standing up to go and he risked opening his eyes to see what she was doing just as her hands closed over his. "You look tired," she said, feeling a little stupid at stating something so obvious. She didn't know where else to start, though.

"So do you," he said, unable to help a small, crooked smile at the fact that she had stayed with him on the couch this time. Her glasses were still perched precariously on the end of her nose, and she was looking over the tops of the frames at him, trying to figure out what to say next. "Just say it, Vanessa," he coaxed her, unsure if he should pull her closer to him. Her hands were trembling over his and her eyes dropped to her lap quickly.

"Why haven't you put all my stuff in garbage sacks and left it on the front yard?" she asked, not looking up.

"Because the neighborhood association would have a hard time with that, and you have a key anyway," he joked a little. "Mostly because I love you, though."

"Why? You aren't stupid. You could do better than someone like me. Especially lately."

"You're right, I'm not stupid. I knew that that wasn't you, though. And no, you aren't the easiest person to be in love with, but I think you're worth it. Sometimes its better not to take the path of least resistance," he replied.

"Yeah, well, you took the path of most resistance. There's a little bit of a difference. Gil, I need to apologize, but I also need to know why you're still here for me to apologize to. I lost direction after Ricky got shot; I couldn't stand myself for that, and I didn't want anyone else to give a shit, either."

"Why did seeing that kid help you find your direction again?" he asked. "Why didn't you chase him down and knock him senseless?"

"Because..." she searched for the words. "because I didn't expect him to look...like he should be too busy playing with his friends to think about shooting someone else. He was too young to look that broken," she shook her head. "I've seen him before. Bad enough to lose one, but two? If I just sit back and let that stupidity perpetuate itself, then Ricky's life was wasted, and I can't have that. As hard as it is for me to start moving forward again, I can't have that."

He reached forward and wrapped her in his arms, "that's why I'm still here."

"I love you, Gil, but you're going to have to break out the big crayons and draw me some pictures for this one," she leaned into his embrace.

He laughed softly, pulling her closer, grateful to feel her almost melting into him for the first time in what seemed like forever. "I'm still here because I love your passion; the way you push yourself out there and risk yourself for what you think is important," his hands were in her hair, and she smiled at being close to him again, letting him comfort her. The way his voice rumbled softly in his chest, the strong heart beat, under her ear as she let herself sink into him, the way he smelled. All were things that let her know that, at least in her corner of the world, all would be okay. "I had faith that you were strong enough to put yourself back together. I just wish you would have let me help."

He had let his head rest against hers, and she felt his lips brush against her skin as he spoke. Her eyes drifted up his chest until they met his. "God, Gil, you are too much," she mumbled. "Why are you so nice to me?"

"Why don't you come to bed and I'll tell you," he caught her in a brief kiss before pulling her with him to her feet. "Or, I could run you a bath," he suggested, still holding her. "I could show you how much I've missed you," he turned and led her down the hallway toward the bedroom.

She found herself completely speechless, words tangling in her throat incoherently, all because of how he was looking at her. "So, should I take care of that bath, or?" he asked as he pulled her close again.

"No," she started, feeling guilty at how he flinched a little at the word. She'd said that entirely too many times lately in her efforts to push him away. "I think I should be making this up to you," she stretched up to kiss him lightly. "And I better get started, because its going to take a lot of making up before my conscience is clean." She kissed him again. "Unless you --" she coughed a little to mask her sudden discomfort, "unless you, uh, don't really want me..." again, she was lost, searching for the right way to express her thoughts.

"How could you doubt that I want you? " he told her, tightening his embrace and kissing her back. "You'll be lucky if I ever let go of you. I hope this doesn't sound like I'm only interested in your body, but that _is_ one of the reasons I've been going crazy the last few weeks," he admitted softly. "One of many reasons, but a very noticeable one. I've missed how you feel and smell and taste. You have an absolutely amazing body, Vanessa, in so many ways." His hands were wandering over her now, as if to illustrate his point. "Curved and soft in places, strong and slender in others." His fingers had slipped to the top button of her shirt, and lingered there. "Every time you let me undress you, its like opening a present," one button popped through the hole, then another. Where before anxiety had made her hands tremble, she now felt her knees turning to water under his attentions. He continued, "you know -- the one you knew you wanted, but turned out so much better than you ever imagined?"

Her breath caught in her throat and she nodded as she felt the last three buttons of her shirt come loose under his fingers. Almost with a will of their own, her arms were around his neck, pulling him close and down to her lips to let him know how badly she wanted to show him how much she loved him, and how she regretted pulling away from him. Losing one of the kids had hurt, but knowing she had hurt him by acting like an ass, and knowing he had put up with every second of it, almost hurt worse. Finally, she let her head fall against his shoulder while he held her close. "I'm so sorry. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am for the last few weeks," she told him.

"Hey," he lifted her chin so that she was looking at him, "you saying you'd have left if you were me?"

She felt a little offended. "Of course not!"

"Even if I did everything I could to chase you off?"

Now she saw his strategy, and realized he'd gotten the best of her once again. She smiled a little. "I wouldn't leave you for anything. But then, not many people are stubborn like me," she pressed her lips into his neck, sneaking a few kisses below his collar.

"That's very true," he answered as he slipped her shirt off of her shoulders, untangling her arms briefly so that it could fall to the floor. "I wouldn't want you any other way." His hands were sliding over her breasts then following the curve of her waist to her back.

/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

She found herself torn between wants: wanting to just lie back and let him do what he wanted with her, and wanting to make love to him herself. Undressing him and pushing him back on the bed and doing things to him that would steal his breath and his ability to reason.

Her hands had lingered at his chest while she warred with her indecision. She took a deep breath and stepped back half a pace, just enough to start pulling the tails of his shirt out of his pants, sneaking her hands underneath to feel warm skin beneath her palms. "A person would have to bring in a chain-fall to pull me off you," she smiled, leaning into him for a kiss, brushing his bottom lip with her tongue, then pulling away to work on the buttons of his shirt; she got frustrated with the last two buttons and just ripped the garment apart and shoved it off his body, anxious to feel his skin next to hers.

He chuckled at her haste, but stopped abruptly when she started pressing her lips into his bare chest, softly pushing him toward the bed until it caught him behind his knees, tripping him so that he fell backwards. Instead of following him to the mattress, she stood in front of him, and slowly reached behind her to take off her bra. Propped up on his elbows, he watched with unabashed avarice as she slipped out of her pants, stripped off her socks, and stepped out of her underwear, until she was standing naked in front of him.

"God, woman," he growled, and she calmly side stepped his hand as it reached for her. Instead, she knelt bonelessly between his legs, peeling socks away from his feet, then leaning forward on her knees to give her the leverage she needed to let her fingers work the clasp of his belt, the button and zipper on his pants, and slowly push them down his legs, trailing kisses behind her fingers, down to his toes and then back up again.

On her second pass, her fingers hooked under the elastic waist band of his boxers, sliding them delicately over his swelling erection, her fingers barely grazing the skin of his legs. He had stayed steadfastly propped up, watching her every move, watching as her head disappeared under the edge of the mattress again, knowing she was sitting there between his legs, getting him naked. Just the thought of her taking off his clothes was getting him aroused. Wondering what she would do when she lifted herself from between his feet again. What delicious attentions was she planning?

He was becoming intrigued and almost sat up to find out what she was doing when she hadn't reappeared after he felt the boxers fall from his ankles. Then, he felt her fingers on his feet, rubbing tension from the arches and heels, and her lips moving over the tops to his ankles; taking her time to taste let her tongue taste as much of him as she could get to, she moved back up his legs, lingering at his inner knees and thighs.

When he could reach her, he grasped her arm with one hand and pulled her gently up to the bed. "Vanessa," his breathing was short and ragged.

She shushed him with a deep kiss, her tongue slipping between his lips to tease his, delighted with the muffled groans that kept escaping him as she moved against him, winding her legs into his own, wrapping her arms around his neck and her fingers into his hair. She let her leg ride up between his until it brushed against his erection. She smiled against his lips when she felt his entire body twitch at the contact.

Finally, she pulled away from his lips, noting that his eyes were still closed and he was panting. "Is this a good start?" she asked, her smile laced with mischief.

"Vanessa," his voice was low, and the tone sent shivers through her. It was something that she knew was exclusively hers, that he saved for these moments together when he didn't have to think about who was listening or what the ramifications would be. "You are amazing," he finished, finally opening his eyes and staring at her.

She lowered her body over his, pressing herself into him, eliciting another groan. "Why, thank you," she replied, batting her eyelashes coyly at him as she lowered her lips to his neck, finding the spot just above the center of his collar bone that made him shiver.

He gasped when she found it, his hips came off the bed as he shuddered again. She reached down to press him back into the bed, "all in due time," she whispered in his ear, returning to his neck, the tip of her tongue slipping over the tendons and muscles until she found his shoulder.

She sat up, repositioning herself so that she was straddling his hips and leaned back into him, using her teeth and her lips on his shoulders, his arms and over his torso. "When I eventually get you inside me, and I will, _eventually_," she started, still dropping warm kisses onto his chest, running her tongue over his nipples and her hand between his legs and she kneeled over him, "I want you to be pleading for it. Can you feel how bad I want you?" she asked, grinding herself into his leg so that he could feel how aroused she was. He nodded, taking a deep breath. Her mouth dipped to one of his other favorite places, just below his ribs. His back arched into her, and when she applied her teeth to it, he gasped again. "Do you know how damn hot you are?" she growled into his abdomen, keeping her pace leisurely, teasing her way around the hair at his crotch and his inner thighs, running her fingers up and down his sides. "You have the most wonderful skin. It begs to be kissed, and stroked. And your arms -- no one's arms have ever felt better around me," she continued between kisses, her fingers catching up with her mouth, holding his hips as she lightly nipped the area above where the head of his penis rested just below his abdomen. Her breath moved over him and he moaned again.

"I'm not finished with you by half," she warned, her fingers ghosting over his shaft, touching him only barely, and the moan increased in volume. "God, Gil, I love the way you feel under me," she buried her face in his leg, letting her tongue wander over the sensitive skin where his hip met his thigh. "I'm so, so sorry for being such a horrible bitch," she breathed over him. "And I'm going to prove that to you," she added, inching her mouth closer to his throbbing erection. His hands moved to her hair, trying to direct her pace and direction. She pulled away from him a little. "Nope," she gently moved his hands back to his sides on the bed and he instantly gripped the covers tightly. "I love making love to you," she mumbled against him, using her teeth again as his hips came off the bed again.

She teased him with her fingers, then pampered him with kisses along the entire length of him, thoroughly exploring him with her tongue. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, but when she wrapped her lips around the head of his penis, his back arched and he cried out for her. _Thank God the family isn't here,_ she thought deviously, pulling away from him after she had barely gotten him in her mouth, then returning, pulling another cry from him. This time she dipped lower, running her tongue over him, loving the way he tasted and felt, every breath and gasp and cry sending shivers through her. She swallowed him a tiny bit at a time, working down his shaft, pulling back, and taking a little more in on the way down again. Her tongue stroked him the entire time, wrapping around him, tickling him, teasing him, and when she had finally taken all of him into her mouth, sneaking out to taste his balls, just below the erection that he was sure would be the end of him.

"God," he gasped, hands tangling in her hair. She indulged him when his hips came off the bed and he pressed himself into her mouth, humming her pleasure around the base of his penis, sending tremors through him, tightening her lips around him and bobbing her head. "God, please," he moaned, thrusting at her again, only to meet resistance from her hands as she increased the pace of her attentions, sucking at him and humming again. "Vanessa," he growled, his eyes opening, only to see her between his legs, her mouth wrapped around him, engulfing him, her arms holding his hips to the bed, looking up at him through her lashes. His hands moved to her shoulders, "Vanessa," he breathed, chest heaving as he sat up on his elbows again. His eyes had her in a trance, she stopped moving. They were dark, and she would have known from across a room that he wanted her fiercely. "I have to..." he took her by the shoulders and when he rolled over, he took her with him, so that he was on top of her, his hips between her legs, feeling the heat and wetness that was coming from her. "I have to have you, Vanessa," he held her face in his hands, and hesitated, as though he were waiting for an answer.

She couldn't resist teasing him a little more. "Do you? What do you have to have me for? Dinner? A walk in the park?"

He silenced her with a kiss that sucked thought and breath from her as he pushed into her, slowly at first, but quickly losing himself when her muscles contracted around him, and her legs went around his waist. Her arms went to his shoulders, and she leaned up to his ear, "take me, Gil. As hard as you want. I need it," her voice was low, from alto to tenor, and breathless. It was all the encouragement he needed. He was moving in her harder and faster than he ever had, groaning as he thrust into her, his arm around her hips, pulling her to him, holding her steady. "More, Gil. Please," she moaned, closing her eyes and tilting her hips so that he could penetrate her more deeply, locking her legs a little higher around his waist to hold the position. He left anything of the controlled, reserved entomologist/investigator that everyone else knew far behind and pounded into her, making her hips twitch and her voice hitch in her chest as she called his name over and over again.

Although it hadn't been part of her plan, she found herself begging for him in the middle of her cries. She was losing herself to him and everything around them blurred as she felt his hips bucking into her at the end of a long, hard thrust.

"Gil," she cried, clutching his arms, arching her back. "Gil, please," she gasped into his shoulder, bowing her body into his, her hips lifting to meet his thrusts, impatient to feel him buried in her again. She nibbled and sucked at his earlobe, and when he leaned into her and moaned, she let him slip from between her lips and whispered, "please, Gil. I need this. I need you. I want you to come. I love that, Gil. I love you. I. Love. How you. Feel. Gil..." until she started babbling, her entire world collapsing inward to an almost holy place where there was no telling where she started and he stopped.

He was immersed in her, overwhelming her senses with his closeness, dropping her into the carnal abyss of orgasm. She felt him shuddering over her as her muscles tightened around him, holding him in her as she called his name, her hips bucking into him with a will all their own. In a moment of animalistic gratification, she nipped at his shoulder, stifling her screams with his flesh while he rocked into her slowly until he felt the momentum of her movements slack, and her muscles wilt out from under her; only then did they both collapse, panting and sweating, into each other's arms.

/\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

"So," she started a few minutes later, after she'd found some of her breath, "what, about another week of that for my penance?" she asked slyly.

"I don't think either of us is up for that," he mumbled. "Did you think to bring any water in here?"

"_You _pulled _me_ in here, so no I didn't get a chance to plan ahead," she replied. "But it would be nice," she finished wistfully. Her hands were running up and down his back, soothing the last of the spasms out of his muscles as he lay on top of her.

"I've gotta be squashing you," he mumbled, starting to move.

"Don't you dare. That's an argument we've had before," she tightened her arms around him, "I like it. You're the best damn blanket a woman ever had."

"Is that all I'm good for?" he asked, finally rolling his head to the side and opening one eye to look at her.

"No. You're good for lots of other things. Like getting things off of tall shelves for me, or changing light bulbs. Pulling hair clogs out of the drain. Things like that," she teased back.

He seized his opportunity. "Well then, since water is on a low shelf in the fridge, and division of labor is negotiated according to height, you should go get the water."

She grumbled as he moved off her, another hint that she should go to the kitchen. "There's the gross out factor. That's why you're responsible for hair clogs."

"There's nothing gross about water," he reminded her. "Besides, female anatomy dictates that you should go to the bathroom after sex. So you should be up anyway."

"Except for the experiments that might be on the shelf next to it," she grumbled, sitting up. Tupperware in the fridge in their household was always a crap shoot -- leftovers? Experiment? Some combination thereof? "You win."

It took her a moment to accomplish all the tasks set out before her, but eventually she returned to the bedroom, where he was sitting up against both of their pillows, waiting for her. She curled up next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder, sighing contentedly.

"Okay, brat. Here's your water," she teased. With mock exhaustion, she swept a hand over her forehead, "the things I do for you, anyway."

He took the water with a smile. Vanessa continued her commentary, "you know, I should put one of those filter things on the faucet. Then you could just keep a few bottles and refill them." Admittedly, the tap water tasted heavily of iron and other minerals. Good reason to keep a supply of bottled or filtered on hand.

"That'll give you cancer now. I read a study that said so," he replied.

She went quiet, studying his face from her position at his shoulder. "So we're okay?" she asked after a moment, sounding unsure.

He couldn't stop the laugh -- just a short laugh, but unbidden, none the less. "You're really asking that?" he asked, smiling at her.

She nodded. "I've been a bitch, and I know it, and no matter what I said, I don't know how to make it up to you."

He shook his head, the smile still on his face, as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her as close as he could. "Its okay. As we know, I don't respond well to failure, either." He kissed the top of her head. "Look at what happened when..." he cleared is throat, "Nick...well, you know..."

"That wasn't your fault. It wasn't your failure, either," she hugged him fiercely. "There wasn't a damn thing you could have done to change it."

"I'm still not sure about that. There at least _should_ have been something I could have done differently," it still frustrated him. "And it wasn't just Nick. Everyone caught the fall out from that."

"Gil," she shouldn't have been able to snuggle closer, but she found a way. "You did everything you could, before, during and after."

"Does this conversation sound familiar at all to you?" he asked, looking at her intently.

She looked chagrined. "Maybe."

"You stayed with me, and I know I wasn't pleasant."

"You were a moody, brooding..." she didn't finish.

"See? And you've been, as you said, a bitch. So hush," he leaned down to kiss her softly. "I love you." Another kiss and he was sliding down the headboard, taking her with him, so that they were lying together. "I love you when you're a bitch, just as much as I love you the rest of the time. I'd probably _still_ be a mess if I hadn't had you with me. Before, during and after." And another kiss.

Vanessa's leg crept around his hips as she found her usual sprawling position in bed. "Gil, you're amazing. I love you," she said softly as her eyes drifted shut.

He watched her drift off to sleep, his arms wrapped around her shoulders protectively, smiling contentedly. "I'm not going anywhere," he mumbled into her hair.

She barely managed a reply before falling into the first decent slumber she'd had in three weeks: "I know."


	7. Part 7

Part Seven

Autonomy by lilyvonschtup

A/N: bogarted copy of this from where I've posted as well. Couldn't find the finished version in my files. Anyhow... This is the first to the last installment, folks! I unleashed the angst, too. Its in first person, Vanessa's POV. Not gonna say anymore other than thanks to everyone for reviews and encouragement. Side note: Found out the hard way this thing not only doesn't to asterisks...it doesn't do footnotes, either. Let me know if you want Yiddish or Spanish deciphered. Or I can post a glossary of sorts, but I thought it might be late in the game for that. Let me know.

It's my favorite time of day; slipping between cool sheets with the sun not quite over the horizon yet, the window open a crack to admit some of the cool morning air. And the bed still smells like him. I stretch and scoot a little closer to his side of the bed and daydream about both of us being on vacation at the same time, so that I could linger with that sense of well--being all day.

I can't repress the snort of laughter, thinking, yeah, right, Vanessa. That is truly a fantasy! It'll never happen. I don't know if either of us knows how to take a vacation. We did once upon a time, but it was mostly a dare, to see if the other one could do it. I don't remember who won. That was two and a half years ago now. Amazing how time flies, isn't it?

I can't resist. Leaning into his pillows, crawling into the place on the mattress that is shaped like him, I want him. I admit location isn't everything to do with it. He's been working a kidnapping and we've hardly seen each other for a week, which sucks. I miss him, and I'm hoping I'll hear him walk through the door any minute now. But until then, it's just me and my imagination.

I could spend all day thinking about him like this ---- how's that for a forty-three year old woman? I get hot flashes and I'm starting to have to pluck hairs out of some strange places, but when it comes to him, I'm as ramped up as any teenager. I have to figure it's just him having that effect on me ---- I can't think of anyone else who has, no matter what my age was.

Unfortunately, there's someone pounding at the door. I look at the clock. 9:00 am. I wonder if he grabbed the wrong set of keys on the way out. He's been running on fumes lately, and sometimes does things like that. I pull my robe on and make my way to the door. I'm about to open it when the phone rings.

"Son of a bitch! Will all of you just wait a goddam minute?" I holler as I backtrack to grab the phone, then return to the door and turn the deadbolt to peer out at whom it is.

"Just a minute," I tell the man through the gap in the door that is all the security chain will allow. I can't see his face, and that bothers me. I need to focus, and I can't do that with the phone shrieking at me. "Hello?" It's more of a demand then a polite greeting.

"Vanessa," its Brass, and he doesn't sound good. Almost like he's out of breath. He's on his cell, I can tell by the background noise.

"Just a minute. I've gotta get rid of this fool at the door," I tell him, and I can hear him shouting on the other end. I roll my eyes and turn back to my visitor. "What." I scowl at him. "I'm not buying anything, I don't want any siding, I have all the chocolate I want, I don't need a membership to the rug of the month club, and we haven't scheduled any repairs for any of our appliances. Make this quick."

All he does is hand me a note through the door and walk away. "Was it something I said?" I mutter sarcastically, closing the door and resetting the deadbolt, then stepping back into the front room with the paper and the phone.

The phone. Brass. Shit. I put the phone back up to my ear. "You still there?"

"Yeah. That was a hell of a speech you gave that guy. Musta worked," he tried to joke, but he still didn't sound like himself. "Look, do you mind if I stop over for a few minutes?"

"Yeah, he just handed me a piece of paper and walked off. Stop over any time. Ring the bell, I'll be on the couch but I might doze off. Hey, is Gil almost out of there?"

"I'm not sure. And hey, save that paper till I get there," his voice was flat out shaking now.

"Why?"

"Evidence." And he hung up.

"Oh, now what the hell?" I ask the empty room. "Evidence. What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Yeah, right. Like I'm not gonna look at that paper now. But, in deference to Brass, who has been such a good friend to the both of us, I will be careful looking at it. Hmph. Like I didn't have the current sleazoid who was once considered the best of the best trying to get me to change my focus to forensics once upon a time. I can do this. What kind of evidence could be on a piece of paper?

I start making a mental list. Fingerprints, obviously. With that thought, I drop the note on the coffee table. Sweat, I add to the list, regarding the paper: ink, handwriting and fibers. Don't some printers leave a watermark now? Hmmm. I never could resist a puzzle.

So I make my way through the house -- first into the office, where I stop for a moment to drop the guys some dog food. There's a pretty fresh cricket corpse in Beowulf's terrarium, but I check his water and remoisten the sponge just to make sure. Beowulf's been with Gil for an awful long time now, and I figure its okay to spoil him a little. I don't know if a tarantula recognizes being spoiled, but it makes me feel better.

I move to the closet where he keeps spare supplies for his field kit, and find a pair of heavy--duty gloves. Every so often, I snitch a handful for some of the nastier cleaning jobs at the community center, too. The next item I need, I can find under my desk. I stop to cut a length of white butcher paper so that I can lay the paper down on something that will cleanly catch anything that drops from it while I'm handling it. As an afterthought, I go back to the closet and snitch one of the plastic evidence bags. Am I slick, or what?

I'm almost twitching with curiosity. Like Brass doesn't know me better than that by now. The quickest way to get me to do something is to tell me not to. I also still like to climb trees. Some things you never outgrow. That's one thing Nevada could use more of -- at least this part of it. Trees. I haven't seen a decent climbing tree since I went to Jackpot.

I put on the gloves, gingerly pick up the note, and set the butcher paper down on the coffee table. The evidence bag is beside me on the couch, I figure I ought to let someone else handle that part of it. But looking at the paper? That's all mine.

I'm so curious by now, just the crinkle the paper makes as I unfold it thrills me. It's probably going to be pizza coupons, and I'll feel ripped off when it's all over. But for now, I can let myself go with the thrill of facing the unknown.

Its folded into fourths, unusual for an advertisement, that's for sure. I carefully pull one half of the quadrant apart and then switch direction to finish the job.

This is definitely no advertisement. In fact, I feel like the oxygen is being sucked out of my lungs. I feel sick. My hands are shaking and the note falls to the paper on the coffee table. I know they save gloves, I think abstractedly. So I take off the gloves carefully and drop those on the paper beside the note. After that, I'm glad I'm sitting otherwise, I'm pretty sure I would have fallen. And I still haven't convinced him that this room could use a rug.

I can't stop staring at the words. Blocky print, like someone used a ruler to write the letter. I HAVE HIM. Below that is a picture. Gil. Bound and gagged, in a trunk. He's angry and scared, I can see that much in his eyes. He's squinting a little from the glare of what I'm assuming was a flash. There's another knock at the door, but I can't move. A key rattles in the lock. For a second, I'm hoping this is all some kind of sick joke and I vault up from my position on the couch, hoping against hope that it will be him and everything will be all right.

Instead, was Brass. He had a spare key, but couldn't get past the security chain. He can tell by the look on my face I didn't listen to him, as my shaking fingers make one or two attempts at the chain before actually detaching it. He steps in, all business. He whipped out his cell phone and sets it to speaker to call Catherine.

"Willows." She sounds tired.

"She opened it," he tells her shortly.

"Well, duh, Jim. What have we got?"

"I told her not to. She told me it was probably an advertisement and I was afraid she'd throw it away," he explained.

"Still. You know her better than that. What did you think she'd do? I'll be there shortly."

"Yeah," he says, closing his eyes for a moment. "As soon as you can."

The conversation ends and somehow I'm kind of annoyed at them for talking about me like I'm not there. Unfortunately, I'm still more panicked than anything. Irritation isn't strong enough to break through that. Instead I flop back down on the couch and stare at the note.

I turn to face Brass, who is walking over to the couch, getting ready to sit down and look at the note as well. "When did this happen?"

"About halfway through shift," he admits.

"And no one thought to tell me before now?" Now irritation is making its way to the surface. How could they not tell me sooner?

"I didn't want to tell you over the phone."

Oh. Okay. I guess I can accept that. "What do you know? Anything?"

"He fought back. There was blood at the scene that was too fresh to be from anything else. Its the perp's, not his."

"Anything else?"

I already knew the answer before he spoke ---- it was written all over his face. "No."

"Well, how the hell did this happen?" Getting irritated again. I want to know who dropped the ball so that I know whom I need to throttle first.

"The original scene was pretty bad. The officer was fairly new and Gil excused him so he could go somewhere else to lose his dinner. We're wondering if the scene was set up as a lure. The officer returned to the scene within minutes and Gil was gone. The kidnapper must have already been on the premises, watching what was going on."

My head lolls back and hits the back of the couch. I'm not hearing this. I'm just not. I still feel panicked, but I'm damned if I'll let these folks see me lose it. Instead, I sit back up and walk out to the kitchen. I need coffee. I need Xanax. This is definitely a Xanax moment if there ever was one. I start the coffee maker and reach into the back of the cupboard for the pills. Instead of waiting, I toss one back and stick my head under the tap for a drink.

I call the community center and leave a message that I'm going to need someone to cover my shift ---- I'm still working late. It works out for the best most of the time. Carlos asked why and I told him to just keep watching the news, he'd probably hear about it eventually.

There was a final hiss and gurgle as the coffee pot finished its machinations and I immediately grabbed a cup and went back into the living room. Brass and Catherine knew well enough to get their own. I couldn't ever remember how they like it anyway.

"You did this?" he asked, surprised.

"No. I have a midget investigator hiding in the closet who processes notes for me when they come."

"I'll take that as a yes." He was looking intently at the picture. "Good job with the paper underneath," he complimented. "These the gloves you wore?"

I just nodded at him, sipping at my coffee. The Xanax feels like I'm watching the mercury on a thermometer drop. I'm still upset, but I can handle it now. "Are you getting anything else?" I stand next to where he's sitting, my gaze returning to the picture.

"I don't know. I'll have to leave this," he pointed at the picture with his pen, "with Archie. If anyone can get anything out of it, it'll be him. The rest will go to questionable documents after Catherine is finished with it. I'm kind of surprised that its hand written," he looked puzzled. "What did you see of the guy who gave it to you?"

"Nothing. He had his baseball cap pulled down over his face and he was slouching. In the shadows on the porch, I couldn't tell much of anything." I took another sip of coffee, and tried to steady my still shaking hands.

Before long, Catherine is coming through the door, field kit in hand. She looked as exhausted as she'd sounded on the phone. The first thing she did was the same thing the rest of us did. Stare at the paper with the blocky print writing and the picture.

She spent about forty five minutes asking me questions and processing the objects laid out before her, with another compliment to me for having the foresight to save my gloves and preserve any trace with the paper underneath. Then they both left me to my own devices ---- whatever those were.

The first night was hell. I kept hearing something at the door. I wasn't sure if I should be scared or if I should rush to the door and see if it was him. I kept thinking I heard him walking around. The part of my brain that had settled into our mutual habits kept expecting him to come in the door at any second. And every second he didn't was hell.

I spent most of the night tossing and turning, then finally gave up and tried to watch TV.

I had managed to doze off a little when there was a pounding at the door. Just like the day before. I got up carefully and walked as quietly as I could to the door, standing on tiptoe to see if I could get a better look at who was there. It was 'note--boy' as I had already come to call him. Same time and everything. I jumped a little when he leaned in and pounded on the door again. I was transfixed. He was a kid. He could hardly be out of high school.

Finally, after the third set of resonating knocks, I slid the deadbolt back, leaving the chain in place again. Hat pulled down, slouching, he pressed another piece of paper into my hand and walked off. I went through the same routine as I had the day before: paper, gloves, and evidence bag. Then I called Brass, sat down at the couch and carefully unfolded the note.

More block print: DO YOU MISS HIM?

This time, though, there were two pictures. One was of him. He looked like he was asleep on a cruddy mattress on a concrete floor. He was tied to the bed with lengths of rope, bound hand and foot. It looked like he'd been beaten.

I fought back the urge to throw up and looked at the second picture, afraid of what I might see. I couldn't fathom that it could get worse. The second wasn't as violent as the first, but it was worse. We were in bed together. I was sitting on his lap facing him, my head thrown back as I clutched at his hair. His head had sunk down to my breast. I remembered that night. Our most recent anniversary, commemorating the night he kissed me, and we'd argued, and he'd kissed me some more, almost three. How had anyone gotten this? I dropped the paper, the pictures, and peeled off the gloves, dropping them where I had the day before, and made my way to the bedroom, practically breaking into a run.

When I got there, I just stood there, turning stupidly in a slow circle, looking for where someone could have gotten that picture.

"I'm going to talk to the Sheriff about posting a uniform here," Brass told me.

"Like hell you are," I responded. "I'm having enough problems without dealing with police presence outside my home."

"I think its what Gil would want," he said quietly.

"What if that just provokes whoever has him? Huh? We don't know shit about what's going on here. There hasn't been a ransom demand or anything. Thanks for being concerned, but I don't think that's a risk I want to take," I closed the conversation by turning and walking into the kitchen.

I was leaning on the sink, looking into the back yard, trying to take deep, calming breaths when Brass came up behind me. "All right. You win this time. But if this escalates? We're playing by my rules."

On day five I was feeling kind of ragged. Okay. A lot ragged. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't get interested in food enough to eat. Every day there was another note. All I could think about was what the next note would contain. More pictures of him? More pictures of us that no one on earth had a right to have? Who knew? I sure as hell didn't. What I did know was that I was sick of feeling helpless; that there was nothing I could do to help.

I was sitting on the couch at 9:00 sharp, waiting for the knock. It came two minutes later. I dragged myself to the door, and mechanically looked through the peephole. Yup. Same kid. Same hat. Same non--descript jacket and slouch. Resigned, I slid the chain back and unlocked the dead bolt.

"Lemme guess," I grumbled, taking the note he held out and watching his retreating back as he walked to the end of the drive and turned right toward the bus stop. I closed the door and went through my drill: paper, bag, gloves, call Brass and Catherine. They already knew that I'd look at the note before the got there. It was a given at this point. I didn't want any nasty surprises in front of anyone.

This one came in a small manila envelope. I opened it carefully, and dumped the contents on the paper. There was a post card with the same shitty stick writing on it. On the front, a picture of sun bathers and script reading 'Wish You Were Here!' I rolled my eyes. This clown really thought he had a sense of humor, didn't he? On the back, there was a message. WHAT DO YOU FOLLOW WHEN THERE IS NO EVIDENCE?

A fresh picture of Gil, in pretty much the same position, only more bruises. Sleeping, to all appearances.

The next item was another piece of paper, yellowed with age and folded into three sections. I drudged through opening it. It was a part of a letter:

You said I should tell you what's going on with him. He's gonna fit in real nice. Even got himself a boyfriend already. If it weren't for Ed, a couple of the gangs in the yard would have taken after him already. He ain't real good at keeping his opinions quiet, is he? He shot off his mouth at one of the skinheads on the yard and got the shit beat out of him for it. Ed's been here a long time, so he can kinda look out for him. I told him he should keep his head down, but he don't listen. Of course, I don't suppose he has much to lose, though. It'll be different when he's taken out of population and put on death row. He told me his lawyer doesn't think there's any way to bargain him down to anything else, so he'll be going to the chair for sure. That could still take a long time, though, so I guess that makes us pen pals, huh?

More stick writing at the end of the page: SOUND FAMILIAR? HOW ABOUT A SECOND CHANCE? HURRY, OTHERWISE HE'LL GO THROUGH THE SAME.

This was getting out of control. I had a feeling it had something to do with Tony, which could only point me in a few different directions. I had a theory percolating in my brainpan and it was going to be just as hard to prove this time. I shook my head, cursing myself for being crazy. It couldn't be Gerard. He hadn't shown the slightest recognition the few times I'd met with him. Yeah, he and Gil had fallen out, but if he were trying to get back at him, wouldn't it make more sense to go through me, rather than the other way around? At least if one were to take an indirect approach, which is what this appeared to be.

And just what the hell did the cocky bastard mean by 'no evidence?' Isn't that precisely what this was? Yeah, we hadn't found any trace on anything yet, but that didn't mean we couldn't go through what we had and find out what elements were common.

And yet, I had a sinking feeling. He was teasing me. He knew just how to do it. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that if I run around like an idiot, lose my focus, then I was playing right into the joke. I needed to calm down, look at this stuff methodically. Okay, so we're playing a game. Fine. I've gotten shreds of evidence that I can't link positively back to Gerard or Tony. When I couldn't get enough dirt on Gerard to get the job done once already. I didn't want to get too locked into a theory, even though this was the only one that made sense so far. I still didn't get how he'd gotten some of the more 'candid' shots from inside the house. That was annoying. The team had taken the place apart with a fine tooth comb and come up with a big fat nothing.

Catherine and Brass arrived, went through their routine, collected everything and went back to the lab. I sat down at my computer and checked the instant messenger. Oh, yeah, a note from Eleanor. It wasn't that I didn't like her. She was a wonderful person. I just didn't want to be the significant other on whose watch her kid disappeared.

I have plane tickets booked for two days from now. I keep telling Ruth we could get there faster if we drove, but she won't listen. I even think we could get his Uncle Herb to come out with us. He's been a wreck, so has his wife. You know, that one he married a few years ago. She thinks that we'll be safer in the air even if it takes until Friday. And I know better than to try to drive by myself, I'm afraid. One of the consequences of old age ---- realizing your limitations. I'll email you the flight information.

I typed back.

Thanks for the update, Eleanor. Ruth is probably right. I don't think I should even try to walk from one room to the other at this point. Sleep is impossible -- I gave up. I got another note. I think if we give an idiot enough rope he will hang himself before too long.

The end sounded more optimistic than I felt, but I didn't think it hurt to try to keep their spirits up, at least. I'd chased Aaron out the second night. He'd come over full of good intentions, wanting to help out, but I just really didn't want to be around people. He understood, ordered some take out for me, and told me he'd be at home for the most part this week.

My precious solitude was going to be stymied in two days, though. I didn't know how I could face them right now. Luckily, right now wasn't the issue. Two days from now was. Well, at least I could lose myself in preparing the house for guests.

Seven days and seven notes from the kid. More pictures. I slept in spurts, always waking up sweating from nightmares. On the fourth day, I took one of his shirts to bed with me, hoping that would help, but it didn't. I'd been dodging the people from the lab with their constant offers of support, hiding in the townhouse, giving in to crying jags when they left me alone long enough. I'd cleaned the house from top to bottom. I'd gone to the lab and cleaned the break room. I found his spare keys and cleaned his office. There was nothing left to do to distract myself.

The kidnapper was bold. Whomever it was had pictures of me from three years ago, just before I moved to Vegas, protesting an execution outside the state prison, pictures of us out to dinner, pictures of us at home, yet they still had nothing to go on.

The pounding on the door came again. He was late today. It was almost ten. My stomach tied itself in knots as I walked to the door. When I saw him through the peephole, the tension went red hot. For the last week, I'd been buried in turmoil. In the beginning I'd simply been stunned. Then, if it wasn't overwhelming fear, I was depressed. Everyone's well intended gestures of support only reinforced my feeling of helplessness -- there was only so much that I could do to help. Now, as I stared at the kid through the peephole, the only thing in my mind was that he was the source of my problems; the one who came to my door every morning and turned my world upside down, ripping my foundation away. I undid the lock, threw the door open and lunged out at him, catching him by his shirt, throwing the damn baseball cap from his head so I could get a good look at him finally.

I never knew I had such strength. I slammed him up against the wall of the house, knocking the wind out of him. "Where is he, you bastard!" my voice ground out. The rest of the world faded to gray around me, and it was just the two of us. Him, with a package in his pocket this time, and me, with my arm across his neck, pressing him against the wall.

"I don't know," he squeaked.

"Bullshit! You rat fucker!" My hand grabbed his crotch, squeezing his balls. "I want to know where he is, and I want to know now!" I was shouting now, but I could barely hear it.

"I don't know," he crumpled at my feet when I let go. Instead of letting it be, I pulled him back upright by the collar of his tee shirt, slamming him into the wall again before I turned and threw him inside the house.

He sprawled on the floor in the entryway, sliding a little ways on the smooth concrete flooring. "I don't know what you're talking about lady!" he cried frantically when I moved for him again.

"Fuck that!" I spat in disgust. "Tell me the goddam truth, right now, or you'll be auditioning for eunuch of the year!"

He crawled away from me a little, crab walking across the floor, heels slipping under him. "Honest! I don't know!"

"How the hell can you not know what the hell this is about?" I shouted. "You've been here every goddam day for a fuckin' week, a new note, a new picture. Are you that stupid?" I hauled back and kicked him in the thigh, watching as his leg went out from under him and started twitching.

"This guy said he'd pay me to deliver the stuff!" he groaned, clutching at his thigh. "I need the money!"

"So you are indeed that stupid? I'm having a hard time believing this," I looked at him and quelled the urge to actually spit on him.

"I need the money," he whined again.

"Not this bad, you don't," I grated. I hauled back and kicked the other thigh for good measure. When it also gave out with a twitch, I walked over to the phone and called Brass.

"Hey. I got the little shit. He's right here in the living room and he isn't going anywhere." I told him flatly when he answered.

"What the hell did you do?" he sounded concerned.

"I kicked him in the sciatic on both sides. It'll take about a day for the shaking to wear off. Get down here and get him out of my sight."

I walked back over to him and snatched the day's package out of his pocket. "You can plead your ignorance with the cops. Rest assured, they'll probably be nicer than I was." I stalked off and opened the letter, thicker this time, using the usual procedure.

I got a CD this time. Well, I thought in my temper, what have we here? Home movies? I went to my laptop and popped it in.

There was a letter, as usual.

By now, you know that the little notes I send your way will be clean. I have him. No ransom. No trading. No bargaining. It's been fun watching you the last few years. Did you really think you could be happy? I'll let him call you soon to say goodbye. Anything less would be unfair.

Somehow, this only pissed me off more. What the hell did this crazy mean by saying that they'd been watching me the last few years? How dare they invade my privacy like that? And make judgment calls on my life? And drag someone innocent of whatever this situation was into it? And then, the icing on the cake, to discuss fair versus unfair!

I clicked on the other file. It was video. I could hear Gil shouting in the background. Given that he was calling his captor a son of a bitch, I felt it safe to assume that the person was male. Well, at least now I could apply a pronoun to whomever we were dealing with. The image panned back to the dingy room with the worn out bed. Now there was a chair. Gil was tied down to it, shirtless, as he'd been the last few days. The bruises from earlier that week looked like they were healing, but there were fresh ones over laying them. He shouted again, "you goddam bastard bottom--feeder! What the hell is this?" The camera panned again to a computer on a wheeled table. There was a video playing on the monitor; the picture was hazy and indistinct, but in a few minutes, I could make out the lines of our bedroom. I was curled up on the bed, on his side of the bed, his shirt next to me. Another image starring me, as I wandered aimlessly around the kitchen, finally crying into my coffee when I turned over the paper on the kitchen table to find a half finished crossword.

That was yesterday. Somehow this freak had live video from the house. Which meant he'd probably seen what had happened to his messenger. Woops. It also meant that this was probably not the best place for Brass and other members of the team to discuss the investigation.

I leaned forward, resting my chin in my hand as an icy calm stole over me. This guy had fucked up. Somewhere in this he had fucked up and I could sense it. He had gotten over confident.

A voice from off camera, disguised, said, "Gil, you'll have to accept that some people aren't meant to be happy."

Gil yelled some more obscenities and the video went black.

I started making a mental list. What do we know?

1. The captor is male.

2. He is interested in me, not him.

3. He has access to some fairly elaborate tech.

4. He's able to pay flunkies.

5. Speaks and writes like an educated person.

6. Knowledgeable enough to cover his tracks.

The door opened and I looked up to see Jim and Catherine enter the room. Jim bent down by the kid, who was bemoaning his legs and the fact that he needed money. Catherine bit back a chuckle and stepped over to where I sat at the kitchen table. "You did that?" she asked softly.

I nodded.

"You go," she replied quietly, lips twisted in a conspiratorial smile. "What do we have here?" she switched gears, throwing on her professional face.

"Actually, I think you and Jim and I should talk first. Somewhere else," I told her, closing the laptop.

Just as we were heading out the door, the phone rang. I jumped at the sound, but steadied myself as I picked it up; hoping this wouldn't be the call the kidnapper was talking about.

It was Aaron. He sounded tired. "How's it going?"

"Shitty," I told him. No need to gild the truth.

"Figured as much. I know you don't want company, and that's cool. I understand. I was wondering if you've been at the University this week at all?"

"No, why?" I was puzzled as to where this line of questioning was going.

"I've been trying to get hold of that asshole Gerard for the last week and a half. I guess he's on vacation or something."

Wheels spun and cogs clicked into place. The puzzle settled into my lap, amorphous but whole. "Can you meet us at the lab?" I asked him.

"Yeah, when?"

"Just as soon as you can," I told him and hung up.

The four of us -- Brass, Catherine, Aaron and me -- all sat around the table in the break room, my laptop open in front of the two investigators. Nick wandered in while they were reading the note, yawning and rubbing his eyes, followed shortly by Sara. The whole night crew had been practically living at the lab, working round the clock to find their mentor and supervisor.

I had written out my list on a piece of scratch paper, and we once again readied ourselves to rake over the video and previous letters for new insight within the fresh context.

Brass got the two investigators caught up on recent developments, including the reason we were going over this stuff at the lab instead of at the scene. To be honest, I was considering sleeping at the lab myself at that point, except that Ruth and Eleanor were flying out the next day.

In the midst of our discussion, we saw two officers frog marching the kid toward an interrogation room. Aaron, Nick and Sara all looked at me with curious expressions. I just shrugged.

Greg came sliding into the room, with a tired looking Archie in tow. The audio-visual tech took one look at my humble laptop, and shook his head. "Greg didn't drag me out of bed so that I could analyze your evidence on that." Then he looked at me, "no offense."

"None taken, why drink Ripple when you can have Dom?" I replied as the young man led the way to the AV lab.

As he cued up the video file, I found I couldn't fight the nausea and left the room for a minute. Sara followed me out and, in an uncharacteristic gesture, put a hand on my shoulder. "We really are working as hard as we can," she started.

I turned to face her, "I know. I never doubted that."

"I...uh...well, I haven't always...I was a real bitch to you when I found out you were together. I know it. I'm sorry, for what its worth," she stumbled.

"Its okay, its in the past," I tried to reassure her.

"No, I should have apologized a long time before now," she shook her head and looked at the toes of her boots. "I should have apologized to both of you. I guess I just get stuck sometimes. One track mind, you know?"

"I know, Sara. Its what makes you so good at what you do," I told her. "I mean it. No need for apologies. I kind of understand why you weren't so thrilled with the situation. You handled it better than some women I know would have."

"I don't know how you're handling all this," she said softly.

Awww, shit. Here we go. I thought. "Who says I am? You'd see different if you were in there watching that video."

"I don't think I can watch it. And you are handling it. You're the one that called his family. You collected the notes every day. You looked at the pictures. You've been racking your brain for common threads. Just like the rest of us. I think he'd be proud of you."

"I kicked the shit out of that kid today. I mean… I totally lost it. That doesn't strike me as coping. I'm not sleeping. I'm not eating. I've cleaned everything. I don't know what else to do," I admitted more shakily than I preferred.

To dodge further emotional talk, I switched gears back to the investigation. "I have a theory, and everyone's probably going to think I'm on crack, but it's the only thing that fits most of my list. It might fit all of it -- there aren't any flat out negatives, just a couple of 'I--don't--knows.'"

Now I had her interest. Her head snapped up and she looked at me intently. "Let's hear it."

"You're gonna think I've lost it. You wanna find out how well I cope? I think Gerard might be behind it," I said quietly, almost laughing at myself. It sounded totally stupid now that I'd spoken it out loud.

"As in Philip Gerard," her brows lowered. "How do you figure? Why would he go after you?"

"That's a long story," I told her, with a hefty sigh. Dammit. I was gonna have to spill this for everyone to analyze. There was a pleasant thought. "He knows enough to cover his tracks, definitely. He has an axe to grind with me from a long, long time ago. He's educated. At the University, he could have access to the kind of technology with which the pictures were taken. He's known about our relationship long enough to have had a tail on us, and I'm willing to bet he has money to burn – more than enough to pay people to do his dirty work. Aaron told me today he hasn't been at the University for a week and a half."

"That's a lot of theory. No way Brass can get a warrant on it. We're gonna need more." And yet, she looked intrigued.

"I gotta get into Gil's office. Then I gotta go home quick. Damn, I wish I knew if those cameras were active or where they were or anything. I'll get you the evidence you need," I told her. I started moving but, in a moment of insecurity, I paused and looked back, narrowing my eyes. "You wouldn't, by chance, be playing the 'let's humor the crazy woman' game by any chance – I know that's how this all seems."

"I don't think anything is crazy anymore," she shook her head, then looked up at me with more optimism than I'd seen out of any of them. "I'm going to go back in there and analyze, and you get that evidence."

We parted ways, and I headed to his office only to be waylaid by Ecklie. He stopped me. "How are you holding up?" He actually looked concerned. I was confused.

"Shitty," I replied for the second time that day, and prepared to brush past him.

He caught me by the elbow. "We're doing our best. No one is going to rest until we find him. I hope you believe that."

"Thank you," the words felt weird directed at him. I knew that the two of them had made an odd sort of truce when Nick had been kidnapped, but I still wasn't sure how to respond to him. "I really need to get down to his office."

Ecklie's eyebrows went up. "Can I ask why?"

"I...uh..." I shook my head in consternation. "I have a theory. I haven't mentioned it to Brass yet, or the rest of the team. And it sounds insane. I need to find files from when he was back in Minnesota, so I can compare them to my own."

"You worked in investigation?" The director looked genuinely surprised.

"Not exactly. The work I did was what you might call...freelance, "I started walking and he kept up with me.

"You and Gil knew each other before..." he started, not knowing how to finish the sentence.

"Only in passing," I replied. "Its a long story. He got yanked off a case that I had a personal interest in before it got shipped off to Texas," I didn't feel like telling the story more than once, so if he wanted more, he'd have to sit in when and if I briefed the rest of the team, or read it in a report.

"I hope it pans out," he looked uncomfortable.

"Look -- I'm not going to hit you or anything," it was my own way of making amends. "Its just that, when it comes to the individuals I care about, I get defensive."

"I should tell you, the Sheriff is already talking about scaling back resources on this case, probably within a few days."

"Excuse me?" my eyes narrowed.

He nodded, "I know that Gil and I haven't been close," he faltered at his own understatement. "I just want you to know that I'm going to do what I can to keep this on the hot list. Anything you can give us that would help...I'd appreciate."

"Don't you worry. And you can tell Atwater that if he even looks like he's gonna drop this, I'm gonna be in his office giving him every reason to pick it back up," my throat hurt from the words grating out of it.

"Thank you," he said simply before he left me at the door to Gil's office.

I opened file the top drawer of the file cabinet and started pulling folders out with renewed zeal. Three hours later, I had managed to gut every drawer in the office; luckily I had the entire pickled menagerie and Herman for company. Finally I found the stuff I needed. The State of Texas versus Anthony Mendoza. Previously, The State of Minnesota versus Anthony Mendoza.

I looked through the case file -- thank God Gil never threw anything away. Apparently. The paper was discolored and curling at the edges, there were handwritten notes in the margins, difficult to read because the ink had faded. These files were over twenty years old.

His information was a little different than mine. I set about to putting his files back in order, or tried to. I never could figure out what kind of system he used. He'd probably have my ass when we got him back, but that was all right by me.

I stuffed the files under my arm and let myself out through the double doors, hopping behind the wheel of the 'company vehicle' that he normally used, and headed back to the town house, struggling to keep my foot light on the accelerator.

It took twenty minutes. I flew through the door, ran through the house, and slid into the guest room, where my files still resided in boxes in the closet. Life had gotten kinda busy and I'd never really gotten around to doing anything more permanent with them. It took me ten minutes to find my files, as opposed to three hours trying to sort out his esoteric, uniquely--Grissom, filing system. I grabbed the files and headed back out the door, but was brought up short when the phone rang again.

Dread rolled over me in waves. I couldn't feel myself moving, but next thing I knew I was standing in front of the phone, listening to it ring. Finally my hand shot out and picked it up before the answering machine could kick in.

The disguised voice came over the line and my heart sank. "You think you're pretty good, don't you?"

I pulled up as much bravado as I was capable of. "What do you want?" It actually sounded pretty good.

"I thought it would only be fair to let you talk to him for a moment."

I felt sick. The room spun. I had to sit down. All I could think was "no." Over and over and over, like a mantra.

Then, there was static as the phone was carried to another part of...wherever they were. Which gave me a good idea that he was using a cordless. I heard him barking orders at Gil, "make it quick. You can talk more next time".

"So he's not done yet," I breathed into the phone, relieved.

"Don't worry about that. I can manage things here," then his voice was muffled, he was snapping at his captor: "why don't you back the fuck off!" followed by a grunt of pain.

"I'm worried about you," he said.

I laughed. I couldn't stop it from erupting out of my throat. It was so ridiculous. "And why is that? Shouldn't you be more concerned with yourself?"

"I get to sleep when he dopes me. I have a bucket of water. I have a bucket for a toilet. I get fed. What more does a man need?" Even in the middle of this, he couldn't resist being a smart ass.

"Dope?" fear crept into my voice.

"I don't know specifically. It comes in a syringe and when I get to be too much of a pain in the ass, I get stuck." He sounded more grumpy than anything.

"Did he see what I did to message boy earlier?" I asked quietly, afraid that in losing control, I'd antagonized him.

"Yeah. That was pretty impressive. They showed me the video. Is he going to press charges?"

I couldn't believe we could talk this calmly. "I don't know yet. It didn't make things worse for you, did it? I lost my head, Gil. I don't know what else to say."

"Its all right. Let Brass deal with him. He probably won't do anything. Embarrassing enough to get the crap beaten out of him by a little thing like you," Gil laughed a little. "Didn't know you had it in you."

"Your Mom and Ruth are getting in tomorrow." I couldn't think of anything else to say. I could tell he was lying about not paying for my little explosion that morning, and I kicked myself for not keeping a better grip on myself.

"Good. They should keep you busy. How's Aaron?"

"He's been trying to track down Gerard for something, but the guy has gone MIA for the last week and a half," I said casually. "I think he has some field work he needs to run by him."

"Maybe he's on vacation," Gil suggested lightly.

"I love you," I was the first to crack. The light conversation was too much. I couldn't maintain it.

"I love you, too."

I heard a muffled obscenity and the mechanical voice came back over the receiver. "I'll call again." The line went dead.

I picked up my files and headed back out to the lab. I was going to grind this sick son of a bitch under my heel if it was the last thing I did.

I flew through the double doors to the break room, past the receptionist who tried to stop me, files clutched tightly under my arm. Everyone was still in the AV lab, looking at pictures. Looking for anything that would tell them anything. They flipped back to one of the shots that should have been a private moment, and Aaron looked a little awkward for a moment, then refocused himself. Eleanor and Ruth were right ---- he was an incredible kid.

Wow. How old was I that I was referring to a guy in his mid--twenties as a 'kid?'

"I talked to him," I blurted. They all turned to stare at me.

Brass turned around, then faced me again, looking a little apologetic, obviously referring to the picture up on the big screen at the moment. I shrugged it off and he walked toward me. "What have you got?"

It was then that Sara noticed my return, and joined the Captain. "Can we go to a layout room or something with this?" she suggested.

Brass nodded and Aaron joined us as we trekked down the hall a little ways, past the interrogation room where the kid was waiting to be questioned, finally reaching a medium sized room, which was dominated by a huge table. The walls were littered with pushpins. I dropped the files on the table with a thump, then dropped myself into one of the folding chairs that sat against the wall.

Sara immediately went to the files, sorting them into piles according to whose collection they came from. First Gil's, then mine, finally a more recent one from Gil's collection.

"I have a theory," I said grudgingly while Sara opened files and started leafing through the contents.

"Let's have it," Brass encouraged.

"You have to promise not to laugh me right out of the building," I told him.

"Right now, I'll take anything. Go for it."

"I think its Philip Gerard." I waited to see the look on his face. He was...interested. I forged ahead. "I've been through this briefly with Sara." I looked around the room. "I need paper. Actually, we'll need lots of it." Aaron dove into the the backpack that went everywhere with him for supplies. He just wasn't the kind of guy who I though would ever be comfortable carrying a brief case ---- there was something of the eternal student in him, probably inherited from his Dad. "On second thought, screw that. Anyone got a dry erase marker?" Aaron just grinned, dug a little deeper in the bag, and produced three markers.

Moments later, I'd transcribed my list of what we knew about the situation, and explained to Brass how my theory fit. He remained interested enough to want to chase down some answers, but agreed that it wasn't enough for a warrant. From there, I went to the files that Sara was continuing to thumb through.

I was surprised when the words flowed as freely as they did, considering how few people I'd actually told about what had happened all those years ago. "These are files regarding my run in with Gerard over twenty years ago, back when he was working in Minneapolis," I pointed to the folder in the middle, then indicated the folder on the left, "these are Gil's notes from the same time, about the same case." Finally, I looked at the file on the far right, "and this one you should all be fairly familiar with, since it's the case he oversaw a few years ago."

An encouraging look from Brass got the whole sordid story rolling. Once I started telling them about Tony, I couldn't stop. It was like I had gone back in time. Reliving the close friendship we'd shared, and the gut wrenching years I had put into saving him. I felt drained by the time I was finished.

"I didn't think he'd recognized me when I went to the University with Aaron when he first came out here," I explained. "Apparently, I was wrong."

Aaron was looking at me with something close to incredulity. He knew that I'd had a run in with the resident head of UNLV's sociology department, but he hadn't known how entrenched I'd been in the case. I'd given him the Cliff's Notes version. After he had taken in the information, his eyes narrowed a bit. "So, tell me if I have this right. He threatened Dad, he threatened you, he took a bribe that sent an innocent man to the chair in another state...and now he's been missing for the last week and a half, which oddly enough, is slightly longer than Dad's been missing."

I nodded. What more could I say?

"Even Olivia doesn't know where he went off to. I checked. If he was on vacation or at a conference, she'd know about it," he added. I had given Olivia some of the low down before Aaron had enrolled and she'd taken to watching out for him. She'd done a darn fine job of it, too.

"Really?" I asked. "I'll have to check back with her later and find out if she's gotten any gossip on it." Then, I turned to Brass. "What's next?"

Brass, who had been watching the entire exchange quietly, made no move to speak, allowing Sara the opportunity to answer. "Well, I think we could start by establishing where things line up. Where does Gerard live? Where is his office? How does he get to work? Where did their paths possibly intersect?"

I moved on this almost immediately. For the first time in a week I actually felt like I had something inside me. I felt strong. I took several sheets of paper and laid them out next to each other in the table, and picking up a marker, started the time line with the last time I had seen Gil and the arrival of the first note. Aaron stepped up next and added in the last time he'd seen or heard from Gerard in a different color. Then it was Brass's turn, beginning with when he'd first seen Gil that night and when he'd gotten to the scene of his disappearance.

Aaron was digging in his backpack, and finally produced an address book. "Gerard had a party at his place a while back. I didn't wind up going, but I kept the address." The kid looked a little smug.

Again, Brass came to the rescue, producing a road map of the area so we could plot the locations and most logical travel routes for both men. Then, he looked at us and smiled grimly, "I think I've made that punk stew long enough. Time to go get some questions answered." And he disappeared down the hall.

It was about fifteen minutes later that Greg came flying into the room, black converse high-tops skidding across the linoleum floor ---- I will wonder to the end of my days where he gets that kind of energy ---- demanding that we go back to the AV lab.

"We got something in the background. Come check this out!" He was almost shouting. Sara was the first one out of the room, but I was a close second. Would what they found prove me right? Would it be enough to get a warrant? Would a warrant do us any damn good? I didn't expect someone like Gerard to keep elaborate notes and plans in his residence about this kind of thing. If he had drawn up an outline of his plan, he'd probably burned it long ago.

Regardless, curiosity tugged at the three of us and we found ourselves staring at a today's 'installment' on a large screen. With the sound broken down, I could distinctly hear Gil in the background. "You're gonna find out how goddam good my investigators are, you asshole!"

"Well, that's interesting. Kinda sounds like they might have had some kind of exchange before, huh?" Sara commented.

"Hey," said a new voice from the doorway. Nick looked tired. They all did. "So this is where everyone is. What do we have here?"

"You know. A little of this, a little of that," I commented over my shoulder. "Looks like the ante's been upped a little."

"Let's hope he's getting over confident," Aaron said quietly, watching the screen intently.

Brass stepped in, putting a hand on my shoulder. "You lucked out this time," he told me. "Kid isn't gonna press charges on you. Actually started to cry when I told him what this was all about. He had no idea."

Nick looked between the two of us. "What happened?"

"She lost her temper a little. The kidnapper's gonna have to find another errand boy," Brass, the master of understatement, told him.

Nick smiled a little. "Just a little?"

"Yeah. Enough that he won't be walking out of here without help."

Nick's eyes got wide. I turned to explain, "its basic anatomy. The seam of your average pair of jeans sits right along the sciatic nerve. Sharp force, applied in a small area, will cause the nerve to 'short out.' His leg will stop twitching, eventually." I couldn't believe how cold I felt about the whole thing. I felt bad for the kid in a remote way, but it didn't change the fact that it had felt incredible to lash out at something after a week of feeling completely powerless.

"I took anatomy," his brows lowered.

"Then you should know that it works best on people who are well muscled because the nerve is more exposed. If you're dealing with a heavy person, go for the knee because it's a weak point in structural integrity."

"Damn," he shook his head. "Poor kid."

"Yeah, well, that's part of why under-the-table employment is risky. You never know who you're really working for," I replied, returning my eyes to the screen.

Archie fiddled with knobs and rewound the video to the point just before Gil had been shouting. I scrubbed my hand over my eyes. I didn't know how many more times I could watch this.

"Here. There's more background noise. Sounds like a small engine, like a motorcycle or a boat," he told us. I nodded, taking in the information.

"Rewind it again," I told him and sat down, closing my eyes so I could home in on the noise. I heard it, it was distinctive, not just a motorcycle. It was a dirt bike or mo-ped. Maybe a small outboard motor with a bad cylinder. That limited our possibilities somewhat. I heard Archie swiveling in his chair, moving back toward the soundboard. "No. Let it go." I told him.

I heard footsteps. Not soft soled shoes. There was the gritty-crunchy sound of dust between the soles of dress shoes and some sort of hard -- but not smooth -- flooring. There was something distinct about the cadence of the footsteps. "Rewind it again and turn it up," I told him, burying my eyes behind my hands and leaning forward, trying to blot out the rest of the room.

I took a deep breath to refocus and heard the engine again, then the footsteps. Something softly jingling - keys or change in a pocket? I tried to remember if Gerard had any twitches or fidgets, like playing with his keys. How did his footsteps sound? How had the kid's footsteps sounded? Click-slide. Click-slide. Heel-toe-heel-toe. There was an evenness to the steps that was distinctive. Roll to the outside of the foot and the scrape would be softer. The inside was less pronounced and, dependent on the amount of the sole's surface area contacting and sliding over the floor. If the person's weight were centered toward the inside of the foot, the scrape would be thicker sounding. The heel was a sharp click - indicating that the step started in the middle of the heel of the shoe.

Then, words. Soft. Whispered words. A male voice. "Can you hear me, Gil?" I shivered involuntarily. "Your team is too involved in this one. You haven't taught them to distance themselves." An equally soft chuckle and a small metallic thump as the camera was set down on a solid surface. Then Gil was yelling again.

I looked at the screen blankly. How stupid was I to believe he hadn't recognized me? "That sounded like..." I never heard how Nick finished the sentence, because my stomach lurched and I ran out of the room and down the hall, just in time to hit the ladies room and heave my guts into the garbage can.

"If that isn't enough for a warrant, then its close."

I straightened and turned to face Sara. "Close isn't good enough," I told her as I rinsed my face and tidied my appearance a little.

"You look like shit," she told me bluntly.

I smiled weakly. "Good to know my outsides reflect my insides." I stepped past her into the hall and headed back for the AV lab. She followed closely. I stopped in the break room for coffee.

"You can't keep pushing yourself like this," she continued.

I felt my shoulders hitching. The last thing I needed right now was to be lectured. I stretched my neck to either side, hoping to dislodge the knot that was forming. "I'm fine," I said through my teeth.

"We're gonna get him back here, and he's gonna have all our asses for not making you take care of yourself," she warned.

"And it'll be worth every minute of it," I turned to look her in the eyes. "It'll be worth me driving myself into the ground, you guys driving yourselves into the ground, and it'll be worth every second he's standing here chewing all of us out. Because he'll be here," I picked up my coffee and stepped to the doorway. "Now, shall we get back to it?"

The rest of the afternoon was spent analyzing the video. As evening closed over the lab, we moved back to the layout room and worked on the map. I looked at the red pins that were pressed into various locations, and the heavy black lines that highlighted typical travel patterns ---- to work, to grocery stores. To and from the site of the abduction. How had it escaped me to ask where he'd been taken from? I stared at the red pin that wasn't five blocks from the community center. How could that have happened under my nose? On my turf?

"There's nothing you could have done." Brass was trying to reassure me.

"Bullshit. I should have been able to stop this almost before it started. Hell, why hasn't anyone talked to me about it? I know at least five families on that very street!" Agitated, my fingers stabbed at the location on the map. "They must know what happened." I wanted to hit things again, but that had panned out badly the first time that day so I clamped down on the urge. "This is just another way to make it personal, Jim. What do you think of my hunch?"

"I think if we could get a recording of Gerard to match with what's on the video, we could get a warrant for more than a search. The evidence you have in your files is damaging, to say the least."

"It wasn't enough back then." I sipped at my coffee a little more. I didn't dare say that I couldn't handle it if all that work failed me twice in my lifetime.

"We have more than that now. Gil's files supplement yours. We have the voice on the recording. We can start trying to pinpoint a location - I think Lake Mead would be a good starting point. Whatever that motor was, it was recreational…"

"Jim, you shouldn't waste your time placating me like this. I know that what I had was insufficient. Otherwise, Tony would still be here."

"Well, then, you probably don't want to hear this, either, but it's the truth. I'm not the type of guy who flatters a woman who's with one of his best friends," he tried to lighten the conversation with a self-deprecating comment. "You obviously got close enough that twenty-some years later, he feels threatened. Personally, I think that there's something between yours and Gil's files that would sew the whole thing up. Nick is going to go through them."

I just slumped against the wall and closed my eyes. The minutes were ticking by too slowly, and yet much too quickly, as if time had become an abstract force rather than a unit of measurement; much like the final days before Tony was executed. I was reliving the hell I'd tried to run away from all those years ago, only this time it was worse. Tony had been a close friend. Gil was more than that. I thought about sleeping but knew that would only be an exercise in futility. The only thing that offered hope was copious amounts of caffeine and nicotine to keep me functional until this thing came to one conclusion or another. I could deal with the ramifications when we got there.

Nick walked in the door just as Brass was giving up and walking out. There was something about his expression that made the Captain stop in his tracks.

"You guys are never gonna believe this," he said a little breathlessly. "I thought I recognized the name of the judge from the Texas case, so I called my Dad and asked a few questions. The guy retired within weeks of rendering that decision. Since he'd only been on the bench for a few years, it struck some folks kinda funny, and when they looked into it, his bank account was overflowing, with no reasonable explanation. By the time they tracked down the documents he was gone and the money was overseas, so he got away, but there was no question that he took money for the decision. They tracked the money back to Minneapolis, though."

His final statement hit me like a lead weight in the gut. After all these years. Everything I had believed in and poured blood, sweat and tears into had been correct. There was a strange momentum building in the information we were gathering, like riding a bike up a steep hill, making switchbacks with the handlebars, until you come to the crest and let everything fall. Work your ass off, then kick back and enjoy the rush.

Nick continued, "between what you dug up, and Grissom's old notes, especially the part about being removed from the case, I don't think there's much doubt about this. All we need now is a tape of the guy's voice to compare the video to. As it is, I think we could get a search warrant. With the voice comparison, we can get the arrest."

Brass turned to me as I was trying to digest the news. "You should go home. Don't stray too far from your pattern. He probably knows you dug out the files for us, but if you stick to your routine, he may think we've dead--ended again. Who knows what could happen if he gets nervous."

No one wanted to consider that. I grabbed my keys and headed out the door. The investigators went back to their work.

I let myself into the dark house, noting how un-lived-in it felt. Conscientiously, I locked the door and set the chain, and wandered back to the bedroom where I curled up and pretended to sleep.

I was up at seven with someone pounding on the door. Holy shit. How did this guy do it?

I threw on my robe and stomped into the front room and looked through the peephole. Another guy, dressed non-descript, ball cap pulled low. I flipped the dead bolt and opened the door a crack. Another note, this time shoved rudely through the door at me.

"At least the last one was polite," I grumbled as he walked away. I called Brass and went through my usual routine. Butcher paper, gloves, and evidence bag.

It's not nice to shoot the messenger, but that's okay. We're even.

Accompanied by a picture of Gil, tied to the dingy bed again, unconscious. There were red marks on his arms from where they had injected him. What had happened had been violent. There was a cut above his eye, more bruises, especially around his ribs and what I could see of his lower back.

A second picture. Again, one of us, walking out of the opera house. I remembered the dress. Another one gained with my finesse for bargain hunting and Catherine's skill with a sewing machine. He'd taken me to see my favorite opera. I remember protesting ---- the tickets must have cost a small fortune. No one he worked with would have guessed that he was prone to gestures like that, I supposed. Of coming up with little surprises, of gleaning my favorites from subtle clues. Like the time he brought me irises because he'd noticed my penchant for Van Gogh's painting. Most of the time it was small things like that.

This time there was a third picture. Tony and the rest of the Minnesota crew, standing in front of the temporary shelter we'd set up for tornado victims. We were all grinning like idiots. The day had been hot and sunny, and the destruction from the storm was incredible, but we were thrilled to be working together, riding the adrenaline rush from getting the shelter established and the intake process started, and happy to be reuniting families, treating injuries, or just comfort to those who needed it. We found inspiration in each other and the people we were helping. This picture was taken just before all the trouble had started.

This was a bold statement. It either meant that he was getting sloppy (which I highly doubted), or that he was upping the ante again, setting the clock ahead another notch.

Brass didn't bother with knocking, just walked in and headed for the coffee pot. Catherine was close on his heels. Her silence in looking at this last communication confirmed my suspicions. We had to do something, quickly. I wasn't going to have another murder on my conscience if I could help it, even though a large part of me wanted to wallow in self-pity. Which was just one more thing to be angry about - he was robbing me of my right to a brief pity party, which, under the circumstances, I felt justified in wanting.

So, instead of sitting there, I grabbed a cup of coffee and called Olivia. No sign of Gerard. Not even a call or a note. He had a flock of students looking for him to sign various forms and such since it was close to the end of the quarter. His absence was becoming conspicuous, and despite his reputation, the University was running out of patience. That was food for thought. Between what Nick had discovered, the analysis of the video, and today's missive, I knew we were on the right track. The question remained: where the hell was he? He wasn't at home; Aaron, the dear thing, had driven by and checked. Although his mailbox was clear, his landscaping was showing some serious signs of neglect; grass browning and unruly, flowers wilting. He asked the neighbors if Gerard mentioned going out of town, and none of them knew anything, although the homeowner's association was getting ready to give him a notice about the yard.

So who could take a casual hike out at Lake Mead and not attract attention? No one from the lab, that was for sure. He'd be looking for any of them, and for me as well. Aaron would definitely be too conspicuous. He had met Ruth and Eleanor years ago...

Shit! Their plane was due to land in a half hour. Without a word I dashed back to the bedroom and threw on some clothes before splashing some water on my face, brushing my teeth and giving myself a shot of cologne for good measure.

I ran back out into the front room and started frantically searching for my keys. I couldn't remember to save my life where I'd dropped them the night before.

I looked at the two other people in my living room, who were looking at me like I belonged in the booby hatch. "What! I have to pick up Eleanor and Ruth! I only have twenty minutes before they'll be waiting for me and there's no way I can make it to the airport that quick this time of day..."

"Vanessa. Stop yourself. I sent Nick. I figured this morning might be interesting, whether you'd be getting another message or not, or a phone call, or who knows what else. Everything is fine. Sit down and drink your coffee," Catherine explained.

"Yeah right. It's family. I should be the one picking them up. How's this gonna look? Not to mention I have no food, I haven't cleaned the kitchen, I haven't changed the sheets..."

"Vanessa! Stop!" She pushed me down on the couch and I stared at her blankly. My heart was leaping around in my chest as I looked over the house, all the things I should have taken care of to make things pleasant. "You said 'its family.' I think that they'll understand you aren't in peak condition at the moment. Not to mention I don't think you should be driving anywhere." She looked at me critically. "How long since you slept?" I shrugged. "How long since you ate?" I shrugged again.

She looked at Jim, who meandered into the kitchen. I heard him poking around in cupboards and in the fridge. Good luck, there, buddy, I thought. "What have you been living on?"

"Coffee and cigarettes. Breakfast of champions, right?" The smart ass in me couldn't resist.

"No. He'll get back here and we'll all be in trouble…"

"I got that speech from Sara yesterday, save it," I snapped as Brass came back in with a plate of toast. I eyed it with distaste, but forced it down anyway. As soon as Ruth got in the door, I wouldn't be getting away with any of this anyhow.

Catherine rolled her eyes and went back to the note. "I don't think you should come down to the lab today," Jim said, stepping back into the kitchen. "In fact, I think you should drink this and go to bed." He held out a glass of tequila. "Or however many of them you need to drink in order to sleep."

"Jim, that is not the answer here," Catherine admonished.

"You take care of the mothering. I'll handle the other stuff," he replied, pressing the glass into my hand after I'd taken the last bite of the toast.

Catherine shrugged, but I had a feeling that the detective was going to hear about it later. There was a definite 'its your funeral' tone to her posture. I swigged back the liquid quickly, feeling it bite against the back of my throat and then spread its warmth through my body. I handed Jim the glass and he came back with a refill. I had no trouble comprehending his agenda, and at the moment it sounded like a good idea. If I passed out I wouldn't have to face Eleanor and Ruth.

However, I prudently slowed down at this point, limiting myself to sips, so I wouldn't wind up throwing up perfectly good tequila. That would be a shame.

My timing wasn't as good as I could want. It was forty-five minutes later, when the family, trailed by Nick, came bursting through the door. Catherine was packing her stuff and shooting Jim dirty looks. Jim just kept shrugging in reply. And there I was sitting on the couch in my robe, getting drunk. Between alcohol, exhaustion, and a host of other symptoms of self-neglect, the room had begun to spin lazily as I stood up to greet the family. Eleanor stood next to Catherine, pursing her lips at the scene before her. Ruth came up to me and caught me in a hug.

Catherine left the room wordlessly, her distaste at Jim's strategy for coping obvious. Nick's eyebrows shot up, but he made no comment as he toted the ladies' luggage in. Jim walked over to Eleanor and introduced himself, and explained the situation. "She hasn't slept in a week. She's got to sleep, and I don't think she will any other way. She's been at the lab every day. The team is getting more rest than she is. The only thing she's been taking in is coffee and tobacco..."

Apparently, Eleanor had the same effect on people that Gil did – a particular expression that led people to explain themselves, often at great length and quite unnecessarily.

After Jim's babbling, she turned the look on me and all I could do was cringe. It wasn't like I could get up and do anything about it, really. I was pleasantly warm for the first time all week, my muscles were rubbery--loose, and the room around me was buzzing in a very distracting way.

Jim turned to her again, "we're getting very close, Mrs. Grissom. I promise." With that he left.

Nick got their things settled in the guest room, and stepped back into the living room. I found myself feeling very heavy. My hair was heavy. My arms and legs. And, thank God, my eyes were heavy. I couldn't keep them open. I heard Ruth tell Nick, "You better help her get to the bedroom. Last door on the left. Get her in there and we'll handle the rest."

Further away, Nick was replying, "yes ma'am."

"Ya bed'er not be callin' me ma'am," I mumbled as, without any regard to personal will, my eyes began to close. He hooked an arm around my back and steered me toward the bedroom. God, bed had never looked so good. It looked squishy soft and cozy. It looked like I could live there pretty contentedly for a long, long time. If it just weren't so damn far away.

Nick delicately sat me down on the edge of the mattress and straightened the covers. "You got it from here?" he asked. Boy his face was close to mine. It was like looking at him through a wide-angle lens.

I nodded, falling backwards into the mattress, my bottom half hanging completely off. Nick squared his shoulders and lifted my legs up to swivel me over so that I was completely in bed. "Thanks," I said as I rolled over and closed my eyes...and I finally slept.

I slept for about six hours, deeply and without dreams. When I woke up, my head felt like it was going to explode. I was still in my robe.

I hauled myself out of bed, pressing a hand to my spinning head. I could smell coffee beyond the door, and that was a good sign. I trudged out the door and down the hall, but stopped dead when I saw the three people at my kitchen table. Eleanor, Ruth and Aaron.

Damn! I'd totally forgotten they were there. Last thing I remembered, Catherine was methodically processing the note and the pictures, shooting Brass dirty looks as he plied me with tequila to get me to sleep. It wasn't that I didn't love the whole bunch of them, but it wasn't an optimal position to be caught in by the mother of one's significant other. Never mind his kid. And Ruth ---- whose relationship defied explanation; she wasn't a mother, yet she was more than an aunt, more than a friend. She was just Ruth.

Aaron was the first to notice my entrance, and he got up and immediately led me to the table. "I'm hung over, I'm not an invalid," I groused. He just smiled a little and grabbed a cup of coffee and set it down in front of me.

After the first few sips, and my eyes having adjusted to the evening sun coming in through the kitchen windows, I regarded the young man. "You were there after I left. Did they get anywhere?"

"Its looking like you were right, if that's any help. They were talking about whom to send into the field that Gerard wouldn't recognize immediately. I think they finally decided on Sophia."

I nodded. Good choice. She was bright and methodical, but inventive enough to cover her tracks if she ran into trouble. None of us wanted to risk forcing his hand by making him feel threatened in any way. I rested my chin in my hands and pondered the morning's events.

The picture nagged at me. Where would Gerard have gotten a shot like that? It indicated that it was someone I had worked with while in Minnesota, but I'd lost touch with the rest of the team after Tony. It wasn't the kind of picture that would end up in an evidence locker. Even if it had, the objects in that locker had either been destroyed or returned to his family years ago. It was a personal shot - not anything published in a newsletter or anything. It made no sense.

Eleanor said something to Aaron, and the movement caught my attention. She looked haggard, much like the rest of us. Her hair wasn't in its usual meticulous twist, she had completely forgone any makeup, and she was dressed in a pair of loose sweats. Ruth was in much the same state. Aaron - well at his age, he could live on fresh air and sunshine and no one would be any the wiser. Hell, he probably already did. Geez, did I ever miss those days.

Eleanor turned to me, and I waited to be scolded for over indulging. Instead, her eyes were sympathetic. she asked.

I shrugged, signing back.

She just nodded and turned to stare out the window at the sunset.

Ruth turned to me. "Where are your candles?"

"Huh?" What the hell did she want candles for. Did this look like the time for mood lighting?

"Its Friday," she said pointedly, going to the kitchen to rummage around in drawers.

I shook my head, bringing myself back to the present. "I totally forgot what day it was. Top drawer, end of the counter." I slugged back some more coffee and prepared to stand up. The candlesticks were in the spare room, buried among so many other things.

What I saw shocked me. I know I put the boxes back when I grabbed the files, so somewhere between my return trip to the lab and Eleanor and Ruth's arrival, someone had broken into the spare room. Nick had probably taken it as the mess left by a manically worried lover when he'd dropped off their suitcases. I could only assume that Ruth and Eleanor hadn't been in there yet.

At first I couldn't even speak. I stepped to the boxes and looked in - photo albums from a lifetime ago, in the box, but in the wrong order. My hands were shaking as I lifted the one that held the picture I'd received with the note out and leafed through it. There was a light space on the third page where a photo should have been. I knew exactly which one, too. I set the album down on the bed and stepped over to the window. Nothing looked tampered with.

I shook my head and stepped back into the kitchen. Instead of handing Ruth candlesticks, I went to the phone and called the lab. The son of a bitch had been in my house. I needed someone out there immediately to process and I was beginning to think that, now that I was responsible for more than myself, it might not be a bad idea if they put an officer to watching the place.

"What's the matter?" Ruth followed me. Aaron regarded me suspiciously then stepped quietly from the table and into the spare room.

He returned a moment later. "Somehow I didn't think that look had anything to do with you feeling guilty for not putting fresh sheets on the bed," he told me as I hung up.

"Can you get into the bankers box on the shelf in the closet? The smaller one?" He nodded and disappeared again. I was going to need every resource I had at my disposal to get through this one. I already had as much family as I'd ever had close to me at the moment. I had friends at the lab who were busting their asses. But the box was where I kept other relics ---- objects that anchored me and kept me sane when I didn't have any other ground to stand on. Gil would have quirked an eyebrow at me. Then again, maybe not. I had a feeling that he still clung to some of his Catholic upbringing at times ---- not that he'd ever let anyone know. Maybe he was clinging to it now.

Inside the box that Aaron set on the kitchen table were candlesticks. These were the first objects I pulled out, setting them on the table for Ruth to prepare. I pulled out a well--worn copy of the Torah I had carried everywhere when I was converting. It was leather bound, and contained text in Hebrew and English - the ultimate student edition, as far as I was concerned. Blue ink still stood out sharply in the margins from when I had spent hours bent over the pages, pondering life and the mysteries of the universe, and ethics, and everything else.

A mezuzah; given to me by one of the members of the temple that I'd been going to at the time. Her grandfather had been a rabbi from the Ukraine. He and her grand mother had immigrated, carrying their mezuzah and their Torah scroll with them the entire treacherous journey.

One of my favorite objects in the box, though, was a huge tome with onion skin pages, containing Talmudic discourses, midrashim, history...a little bit of everything. The first time I'd opened it in the library at my temple, under the eyes of the rabbi, I'd felt my head spin ---- in a good way. It was overwhelming. There wasn't a topic that couldn't be discussed in those pages. It seemed like they had thought of everything, from ecology to personal relationships. I'd loved every minute I'd poured into that study; every question I answered led to ten more questions. Unlike Hebrew, which had driven me to distraction for months.

Ruth was standing over my shoulder, her long sleeves pulled up to reveal the tattoo on her arm. "You were quite the student," she said softly. "I bet you drove your rabbi nuts." She chuckled at the last.

"He was very patient," I smiled back, a little sadly. He'd retired shortly after I'd completed my studies and I'd moved away shortly after that, and we'd lost touch with each other. She had placed the candles in their holders and was setting out dinner plates. She set Eleanor to placing the silver ware on the table, and Aaron had stepped into the kitchen to warm up some chicken and throw some French bread in the oven to heat up. It wasn't completely traditional, but many people through out history had maintained their observances with much less.

"Hurry, go get dressed," she urged me toward the bedroom. "Dusk is on its way."

How had she known this would help? I wondered as I rifled through the closet. I threw on one of his button down shirts and tucked it into a clean pair of black jeans. Stepping into the bathroom, I washed my face and combed and braided my hair, adding my two rings and a pair of ruby earrings. Rubies for courage, as always.

I rushed back out to the kitchen and felt tears pick at the corners of my eyes. There was just a hint of darkness on the horizon - I was just in time. And the table was simple but beautiful. Ruth had set out a tablecloth. The candles were lit. Again, although it wasn't traditional, she'd donned a prayer shawl. All three of them had pitched together to bring this together on limited time. Aaron and Eleanor were planning on observing a tradition that was outside their own, because it was important to the other two. Because this was how families supported one another.

I let Ruth take the place at the head of the table and recite the prayer over the candles. There was a grace in her movements that left me in awe. In spite of everything she'd seen in her life, that should have ripped any faith she had from her, she still approached the occasion reverently. When she was finished, I recited the sh'ma with her. I'd been reciting it over and over since looking in the box, pronouncing each syllable slowly in my mind to calm my nerves: sh'ma, Yisroel, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad. Hear, Israel, God is one God, the only God. I threw in a Baruch atah Adonai at the end for good measure - Blessed are you, God. Wine had been set out for a blessing, as well.

We had barely sat down when there was a knock on the door. Aaron stood and walked through the front room, careful to look before he opened it. Brass stepped in, followed by Greg, Nick, Warrick, Catherine and Sara.

I looked at the table, then at Ruth, and shrugged. I stood to greet them, "would you care to sit down with us?"

They regarded me strangely for a moment, until I realized that this was yet another aspect of my life they had no clue about. In many ways, I had held myself as apart from them as their supervisor. In some ways I was worse. At least he made no pretense at holding them at arm's length to one degree or another. They knew me as the one who sent leftovers to the lab so they'd get something decent to eat once in a while, the one who listened to their problems, the one who had reached out to each of them. They'd thought they knew me quite well. Over the last few days, they were finding out otherwise.

Greg was the first one to break through the awkwardness of the situation. "Sure, Shabbat shalom," he said, pulling a chair up to the table, yet remaining standing like everyone else. He wasn't just responding out of hunger ---- I could read in his eyes and his posture that he was aware of the mitzvoth of hospitality, especially on Shabbas. He looked around, "I guess yarmulkes aren't required this time?"

"No, Greg. Thank you, though," Ruth told him, smiling indulgently. "Its Vanessa's table and since she's Reform, its up to the individual."

"Unfortunately, my traditions aren't so...miraculous as some of the later ones, no loaves and fishes here. However, you should all feel welcome to sit down and eat with us," I indicated the kitchen table, stepping into the study to grab an extra chair or two.

The rest of them still looked a little lost, but Jim had caught on. The product of time spent on the East Coast, where Jewish communities are much more pronounced. He led the way for the others, and soon everyone was sitting around the table while Ruth and I plundered the kitchen for extras. With a little effort, we scared up some carrots and celery, another loaf of bread, smoked salmon, and some left over Mongolian Beef.

After everyone had had a bit of a nosh - some simply to be polite, others diving into food like they hadn't eaten in days (and they probably hadn't) I led them into the guest room, indicating the abnormal amount of disorder. I found myself stopping by the box that had wound up on the kitchen floor and slipping the mezuzah into my pocked, like a worry stone or some such. I was willing to take comfort where I could get it. Dinner had gone a long way toward establishing peace in my soul and my mind, but it was miniscule compared to the fear and loneliness that were quickly becoming overwhelming.

I took Brass off to the side, "how is it going?"

He looked uncomfortable. "You know I'm not supposed to discuss this so much."

I frowned at him, "I know. I also know you're gonna spill it. So you might as well get it over with."

He sighed. "We sent Sophia out this afternoon, she should be back at the lab soon. Then we'll know something. In the mean time, you think he's been in here?"

"Well, someone has, and I don't care how well he pays his flunkies, if it had been them, there would have been something there that would have stood out to me. The guest room faces the back of the house. It's a clean shot in and out through the window. I wish I'd put in that cactus garden like I was planning on last year," I admitted ruefully. "That would have put a crimp in his style." The idea of putting a crimp in anything of his gave me profound satisfaction. I could think of a couple portions of his anatomy that I'd like to crimp permanently...

Brass merely nodded. We stood there silently, watching the team process the room. They hardly spoke and yet they worked like a well-oiled machine - the effect was singularly impressive - almost symphonic.

The phone rang and we both jumped. Again, I felt myself stepping towards it, but not really feeling the movement. Brass went to the kitchen and picked up the cordless, then indicated that I should wait for his count to pick up.

When he lowered a third finger, we both answered at once. "Hello?" I spoke.

The mechanical voice again. I'd been afraid of this. "Are they finding anything?"

"So you were in my house," I said, flatly.

"You'll have to prove it," he replied.

The silence hung heavily for a moment before he spoke again. He laughed. "He's sleeping quite peacefully right now. You can talk later."

The line went dead. I breathed a sigh of relief. Again, I had dodged a bullet with the phone call. I looked at Brass and on his cue we hung up simultaneously.

Day eight and at that point I was sure I would lose my mind. Sophia had trekked around Lake Mead pretending to be lost, not finding much. There were a couple fishing shacks she said she'd like to look into a little further. There were a few places that were popular for small boats and motorbikes. It narrowed the search somewhat, but not nearly enough for my liking.

They'd found a hair in my guest room, stuck to the zipper of a winter coat the intruder had had to push aside to get to the box. It was making its way through various tests. But that would take time.

I was sick of protocol, waiting until we had enough to get warrants, and all the bullshit that went with the job everyone else had to do. I knew I couldn't sit on my hands much longer. I also knew it wasn't anyone else's fault that we were held up.

There had been no knocks at the door that morning. No phone calls. No communication what so ever. It was absolutely nerve wracking. I kept looking at the clock, willing the second hand to move backward.

At least the house didn't seem like a mausoleum now that Eleanor and Ruth were here. It had been disturbing how my footsteps had echoed louder without another presence there. I was also eating again, not only because Ruth stood over me and made sure that I did, but because I no longer had to deal with the reminder that I was only cooking for myself, that there would be no one to share the results of my efforts.

It was about three in the afternoon when Greg knocked on the door. He was practically dancing around on the porch when I greeted him.

"Greg, do you have to go to the bathroom?" I asked, lowering my eyebrows in consternation.

"No, why?" he asked, stepping into the living room.

"Because you're even twitchier than normal. For God's sake, sit down." I scolded. "Now what is it?"

"The hair. There was a tag on it. We have a suspect!" He was practically crowing. I went and got him a cup of coffee. It wasn't Hawaiian, but he'd just have to live with it.

"And this suspect is?" I asked, handing him the cup.

"He's on a football scholarship at UNLV, but he had a run in with Las Vegas' finest a couple years ago on a drug charge; steroids. Go figure. But Brass has a warrant and he's bringing him in right now!"

Greg was chugging the coffee like it was the water of life. "I had to tell you, even though I'm not supposed to, I know. I stayed and processed it myself. I couldn't believe it, so I ran it three times. We finally have a lead!"

Ruth overheard and came charging into the front room, "why would someone like that go after Gil?" she asked. "Moreover, why would he have a bone to pick with Vanessa? This doesn't make sense."

"Well, we were talking about the results. Gerard isn't in bad shape, but he's no spring chicken, either. Griss could have taken him. He needed back up. If Brass can crack this guy, then we'll be able to go after Gerard."

I sighed and flopped down in a chair. The net was closing, but were we going to be in time? I couldn't risk it. I looked out the window at the early afternoon sunlight. "Greg, have you slept yet?"

"Huh-uh," he said, grinning like an idiot.

I closed my eyes briefly and shook my head, simultaneously cursing and praising the young man's exuberance. On the one hand, he was amazingly intelligent, talented and dedicated. Especially to those he worked with. On the other hand, he could send himself down in flames pushing himself like that. "Greg, I want you to lie down on that couch right now and take a nap."

"But -" he started, his eyes wide.

"No, nap Greg. Now," I ordered. Ruth was still standing behind me, nodding. He recognized that he was surrounded and reluctantly laid down.

"I'm not going to be able to sleep," he said, almost petulantly.

Ruth smiled indulgently, "then just close your eyes and give yourself a little rest."

Within five minutes the young man was snoring softly. Ruth covered him with a light blanket. "That used to work on Gil when he was little," she told me, laughing quietly as she made her way out of the room.

I stood up and grabbed my wallet and keys from the table beside the door. "I'll be back in a little while," I told Ruth and she nodded.

My first stop was the lab, where I met Brass heading toward his office.

"How goes it?" I asked, trying to sound more chipper than I felt. I fell into step beside him and we entered the small room that always smelled of strong coffee and aftershave.

"Well, we should have an arrest warrant soon," he told me grimly. "How do I always tell you this stuff?"

"Because you just can't help yourself. Its my winning charm," I replied sarcastically.

"That must be how you caught our Grissom," he returned.

"Back to the topic at hand," I said. "We need to find a certain head of a certain sociology department. How do we know this?"

"The suspect cracked. He got in through the window ---- Gerard told him exactly how to do it, what to look for, everything. Kid lost his football scholarship over the drug charge and didn't tell his folks. Gerard offered him a pretty penny and an A in his class."

"Really?" was all I could think of to say.

"Yup. So," Brass settled back in the plush leather chair. "We know he isn't at the University. The secretary has a standing order to call you if he shows up. Aaron says he isn't at his house, either. But he's still in the area, because the guy who got into your house just met with him the other night. He's been getting bonuses for kicking the shit out of Gil…"

My jaw dropped. "Say what?" I growled. "Is he still here?"

Brass chuckled. The sound was clipped and grating, though, and didn't hold a trace of humor. "Down girl. He's in custody. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. Gerard is still in the area, but he always meets the kid in a park or something. I've got the DA considering a plea bargain if he tries to arrange a meeting where we can nab Gerard."

I forced myself to take a deep breath. And another. And another. I could handle a plea bargain if it put Gerard where he'd belonged for well over twenty years. The kid had been a puppet. Much like the first messenger.

"He's the same one that delivered your message yesterday."

Shit. Shit, shit and double shit. "That means Gerard probably knows something happened to his new errand boy." I grumbled.

This time, he did grin, and his voice held a hint of satisfaction. "Actually, no. He wasn't supposed to meet with Gerard again until tomorrow. Stringing you along, I guess."

"So if we can pull this off today..." I speculated.

"Exactly."

In the car, I turned up the radio, and hit the highway toward Lake Mead. I'd already talked to Brass and we thought maybe I could flush him out. Sophia had told me about the places that she thought stood out as possibilities, and of those five; there was one that particularly interested me. It was set back from the lake's eastern bank a little way ---- not easily visible to the hordes of people who visited the lake every day. It was an old aluminum shed, rusty in the corners, set on a concrete foundation. Windows were limited, one in the back, and a couple high windows on the sides.

Once again I thanked God for the fact that my car wouldn't attract a second glance from anyone. It was old, but it was ordinary - and really fuel-efficient. Again, thank God, because I skirted the lake a few times, first looking for the building, then sizing it up.

There were about three boats tied to a pier adjacent to the structure, with a sign that said 'For Rent.' I parked a ways away, behind a tree, and walked over to the proprietor to talk.

I stuck my hand out for a greeting. He seemed friendly enough. There was grease under his fingernails and his hands were heavily callused.

I looked over the boats. "This last one is a diesel engine? I didn't know they made them this small," I commented.

"Yup," he said simply.

"About two days ago, do you know which of these were rented out?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Idle curiosity," I said with a grin. "I'm not here to close you down, or audit your paperwork."

"Well, that was the littlest one, there in the middle. Some young couple said they wanted to go for a picnic."

"Do you have any record of their names?"

"Nope."

"Okay, here's the part where I sound really nuts. Did you have trouble starting it?"

"Yup."

"Is it fixed?"

"Nope. Waiting on the part."

My head dipped between my shoulders and I looked at him sheepishly. "Can you start it for me so I can record it?" I grinned hopefully.

"You ask a lot of questions," he grunted, moving toward the small boat as I took the mini-recorder from my pocket.

When I left, triumphantly pocketing the recorder, the proprietor was shaking his head. I headed back to the lab with my treasure and went straight to Brass, and from there we went to the break room where Archie was sleeping on the couch.

Brass woke him gently, a little guiltily, but the sooner we analyzed this tape, the closer we'd be to the end of this whole nightmare. A small cheer erupted from everyone who had gathered in the small room when the sounds overlapped perfectly.

It was three hours later. Everyone (including Greg) had gathered in Gil's office to discuss strategy. Warrick agreed to go down to the shack with me to scope things out. There was no question that I was going, and none of them even thought to stop me. They all knew they'd hear about it later if (when, I reminded myself) we got him out of there. No one particularly cared, though.

At my phone call, or at the end of the hour, whichever came first, the rest of the team, plus SWAT, would head down.

At first, everything was going perfectly. We both checked out the window in the back that faced the highway at an oblique angle. We listened at the door. Warrick gave me a boost to look into the higher windows. It was in the third of these windows that I spotted him. Tied to the bed again, sleeping fitfully, looking like he'd been through the ringer, red marks and bruises in his arms where Gerard had gotten careless with his injections.

I looked down and gave Warrick the thumbs up. So far, there was no sign of anyone else in the hut. We stepped back a pace to discuss strategy.

I handed Warrick my cell and after some arguing he agreed to sit back in the brush along--side the lake and call the lab while I did some more skulking. I won the debate on the logic that if something happened to me, he would be more able to do something about it than if I had to come to his rescue.

Okay, so I fibbed. The door wasn't visible from Warrick's hiding place. I went boldly forward and pulled at the handle, and it slid back surprisingly quietly, given its appearance. I stepped in and shivered at the noise my shoes made on the concrete floor ---- reminiscent of the sound of the footsteps on the CD. Pausing, I took off the shoes, followed by my socks, in order to make myself a little stealthier. It would suck if I had to get out of there in a hurry, but right then, I was focused on one thing.

I clung to the shadows, back to the wall, and stepped from one 'room' into the next. Sheets of corrugated aluminum separated the rooms. A front room. A makeshift kitchen with a camp stove and two large plastic tubs for dishes.

Finally I reached what I thought was the back room. It had a door, of sorts. A sheet haphazardly attached to the doorframe. The room was dominated by computer equipment. No Gil.

"Now what the hell," I muttered. I'd seen him just as plain as anything. I decided to explore a little. Walking along the opposite wall, I found holes, and on a whim, put my eye up to one of them. I was rewarded by a reprise of the image I'd seen through the high window. I also saw Gerard sitting in a chair at the back of the room, reading a book. The thing I couldn't figure out was how to get in there.

I kept walking very softly; small steps that started at my toes and rolled through the rest of my foot like I'd learned so many years ago in ballet. Finally, at the back of the dark room was a door, left cracked open, and when I peered through, I saw the large window that sat at the back of the shack. The doorway made a room no larger than a small hallway, good only for storage if anything. But it led to the room where Gil was. Cautiously, I reached out to touch the cool aluminum. Taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, sending a silent prayer out to whoever might be listening that evening, I pushed.

This door, like the front, moved silently on its track, and I let out the breath. I continued to hug the wall; turning left into the passage, and saw another sheet hung over a doorway. Thank God ---- no more anxiety inducing sliding doors. I felt exhilarated, being this close to Gil, having found him. My muscles felt cat-like; controlled and strong and flexible, full of silent movement and pent up energy. It was all I could do not to pounce on Gerard and wrap my hands around his throat.

I was slowly stepping into the room, Gerard had actually fallen into a doze over his book - I was stunned at my luck. If all went well, I could disable him before he even knew I was there.

I was half way in the room when I heard the soft slide of footsteps behind me - distinctly Warrick footsteps. Gerard's head snapped up and I was the first thing he saw. "You found us," he said, standing unhurriedly.

How was I supposed to reply to that? I stepped further into the room, glancing at Gil. Jesus, he was barely breathing. I finally found an answer. "I should kill you."

"But you won't," he sighed, and pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket. And pointed it casually toward the mattress. "I think your friend should step inside, as well," he continued, looking at the door way again.

"Warrick," I growled, "what the hell were you thinking?"

"I thought you might have got yourself in trouble," he grumped, stepping in and looking immediately at his boss.

I sighed and shook my head. "Goddammit," I mumbled, turning my attention back to Gerard. "I'm sick of your stupid games. What gives?" All I could feel now that I was there was contempt. "Why didn't you just filch my files and be done with it? Why go to all this damn trouble? I know what a pain in the ass he can be."

Warrick was looking at me, concealing an astonished expression rather well, except for his eyes, which widened for a second. Gerard looked at me, analyzing the moment. I saw Gil's eyes flutter open briefly, then snap closed.

I grew impatient for an answer. "Well," I tapped my foot a little and crossed my arms over my chest, stepping a little closer to him. I could feel my temper sitting at the very edge of control. If I lost it, it would make the message boy's encounter look like a walk in the park. Provided he didn't shoot me first.

Instead of answering me directly, he looked at Gil. "You were right," he said softly. "I guess I don't have anything left to teach you."

I rolled my eyes derisively. "That's really touching, but it didn't answer my question. Quit stalling, Phil," I snapped, knowing he hated to be called that. "The statute of limitations was long since past on anything I had on you, so what's the deal?"

"Between the two of you, you had enough," he swiveled toward me, the gun still lax in his hand.

"For what? Isn't it enough that I've lived with the fact that I didn't have what it took to help my best friend all these years? Now you gotta come along and fuck with me some more?"

"They might not be able to try me, but rumors can still destroy a career. Or the legacy of one. I could have just killed you, I suppose. But this has been much more interesting. Gil and I have had a chance to really reconnect," he smiled.

"Tony wasn't the only one, was he?" I felt sick.

Gerard smiled sadly and shook his head. "The tip of the iceberg. You got very close to information that really should stay buried…for everyone's safety. It doesn't look like my strategy is working any longer, though. You're different than you were then," he looked at me appraisingly. "You're more resilient. Last time I watched you turn into a ghost. You were fighting, but you were killing yourself doing it. I thought I would scare you bad enough to get you to destroy your files, and his too. Even with that, I still had to do something about Gil. Even without a paper trail, the two of you would have put it together. This way, the evidence will be gone and you and I could go our separate ways."

I felt my nerves vibrating. Where the hell was the cavalry? I didn't want to be having this conversation, but I'd hang on to it as long as I had to.

"What the hell ever, Phil. There's a fine line between toying with someone and forcing them to the point where they just don't give a shit anymore. I couldn't be less interested in your past, however sketchy," I really hoped that sounded convincing. I was bluffing my fool ass off. I was scared for myself, scared for Warrick, scared for Gil and for the help that was on its way. Warrick shouldn't even be in here a voice in the back of my head kept ranting, and I prayed that he'd have the sense to stay back in the corner and stay as unobtrusive as possible. The bottom line was, I'd bust Gerard on everything I could find given half a chance. And kick him in the crotch to top it off.

I took another careful step forward, closer to the bed. "Right now," I continued, "I'm sick and tired of the bullshit. You haven't left me a damn thing to hope for. Why should I care anymore? Shoot me. Go for it." I held my arms out. "When it was Tony, there was always that glimmer of hope that I'd find the evidence that would turn the whole thing over, even up to the last minute. This time, from the very beginning, you gave no indication that I could turn this around." I took another step and he followed me. He almost had his back to Warrick now, who was inching toward the room with the window, presumably to wait for reinforcements.

"And if I gave you that glimmer of hope?"

"Why? You just as much as told me this whole thing was to keep me scared enough that you could control me. You're right. I'm different now. That wouldn't have happened. It's too damn late to change your course now. You're as stuck as I am. Checkmate. Your move."

"I could just let him go," he said, pointing the gun at me.

I laughed. "You think that'll help your case?" I stepped toward the bed again, turning Gerard's back fully on Warrick, who left the room. I was almost within arm's reach of Gerard now. I assumed Warrick was standing at the window. "You're pretty well fucked here, Philip. You get rid of him, you're gonna have to get rid of me, because this time I won't rest until I see you attempting to pay for what you've done."

He leveled the gun at my head. "I bet you'd take a bullet for him." His voice was quiet and cold.

Just like the commercial. Never let them see you sweat, I thought, forcing every ounce of bravado I had to the surface, focusing on my anger rather than my fear. "How'd ya guess? Was it all those years of training? Was it the degrees on your wall? What the fuck's holding you up?"

Gil rolled over on his side, still feigning sleep. At almost the same moment, there was the sound of a car door slamming outside, followed by others. Gerard spun, looking for Warrick, and I seized my opportunity. I jumped on his back, wrapping my arms around his throat, cutting off his air, and kicking him sharply behind the knees, sending him sprawling forward. I started to sit up, pressing my knee into his back and reached for the gun. For the second time in a week, the world around me faded to gray. I could see Gerard. I felt him rolling under me, forcing me onto my back. I heard, faintly, shouts from all around me.

I seized the hand with the gun in it, forcing the barrel up toward the ceiling. It discharged once, but even that sounded faint and echoey. I regained my position on top of him, this time pushing my knee into his chest. His free hand was pounding on my shoulders, my back and any part of me he could reach. I sank my fingers into the tendon in his other wrist, and he dropped the gun with a curse and rolled again, dumping me off him.

I was on my feet in a second, and kicked the gun to a corner of the room. Gerard was dirty and smudged and rumpled, favoring his wrist and his breath coming in rasping wheezes. Again, I made the first move, rushing him, throwing all my body weight behind a flat--handed strike aimed at the center of his chest.

I felt a rib separate, and he grabbed my arm, twisting it, pulling me down as he fell with a startled gasp. There was no finesse here. I reeled back on the way down and slammed my fist into his face, splitting his lower lip. Relying on the adrenaline coursing through my body, I hauled him back to his feet and with my right hand grabbed him by the hair while I drove my left fist into his stomach, forcing him to double over. My right hand shoved his head into my knee and I felt the bridge of his nose snap.

I yanked his head back so I could look in his eyes. Blood was streaming out of his nose and down his chin. He was pissed; there was no doubt about that. All I felt was contempt. I dropped him to the floor and kicked him in the side, then felt strong arms around mine, pulling me backwards. I watched, almost detached, as Brass snapped cuffs around his wrists and helped him stand up.

Then it was Jim who stepped over to me. "Dammit, Vanessa, now he's gonna bleed all over the car," he was trying not to smile.

I turned to the bed, color returning to the world around me as my mind slid back into place. I saw Nick and Greg working on the bungee cord that held Gil to the bed. Brass was reading Gerard his rights. Catherine and Sara were processing the other rooms. Warrick was still behind me, holding me by my upper arms, and I could feel him shaking. There was a medic tending to Gerard's nose, and another medic helping Gil sit up so that he could be examined more carefully.

I rode in the back of the ambulance with Gil to Desert Palm, clutching the hand that was unhampered by IV lines the whole way. Every so often he would open his eyes and look at me. Eleanor, Ruth and Aaron were waiting in the emergency room lobby when we got there. Aaron helped the nurse pry me away from the gurney as they rolled him into a room where he would wait to go to the radiology department. Unable to sit still, I went to the vending machine and got a cup of coffee, then returned to our growing group to pace. Greg, Nick and Sara had shown up, Brass was keeping his eye on Gerard, and Warrick had gone with Catherine to take care of the immediate paperwork, but they would be along shortly.

"You're gonna wear a rut in that carpet," Nick said from behind me.

I just shrugged, and turned to walk the length of the waiting room one more time, just in time to see Ecklie come through the doors. "Shit," I grumbled. Yeah, this was the time for me to deal with him. Right. Well, he was just going to have to lump it. My adrenaline rush was wearing off and I was beginning to feel the effects of my earlier actions. I was tired and, I'd started to realize, hungry. But above and beyond anything else, I was anxious to see Gil. What I was not was diplomatic.

Ecklie walked up to the tribe of investigators who had set up camp in the waiting room. I had to give the man credit; he looked like hell just like the rest of us did. He flopped down in a chair next to Greg. "Atwater will be here shortly," was all he said.

"Good," Greg joked, "maybe he can find someone with the authority to tranquilize her."

I shot him a dirty look, drained my coffee, and walked back to the vending machine for more.

By the time I got back, the rest of the group had assembled ---- Catherine, Warrick, Brass and the Sheriff. I went back to pacing while we all waited, since it was better than sitting there staring at the clock or watching a muted TV with bad reception. Or reading three--year--old magazines. Or any of the other pathetic crap that serves to occupy people's minds when they're in a waiting room.

Finally, after three hours of pacing and drinking coffee, someone official looking came out of the emergency ward and walked toward us. I didn't wait until he caught up with us, choosing to meet him half way. Okay, not precisely half way. I actually came closer to running the man down.

"You're waiting for Gil Grissom?" he asked with a slight smile.

"Yeah, what can you tell me?"

"Are you family?" he asked.

I stopped dead, with my mouth hanging open. "What do you mean, 'am I family?'"

"I can't release information to just anyone, I'm sure you understand," the doctor said, the smile fading from his face.

"Do you understand that I need to know how he's doing?" my temper was getting away from me again.

Brass caught up with me, followed shortly before the family, before the conversation could go any further. "They're engaged," he lied coolly.

The doctor looked indecisive for a moment, sizing me up. Brass continued. "She's had a rough few days, and she would really appreciate it if she could see him as soon as possible."

I turned and waved Eleanor, Ruth and Aaron closer, and we huddled around the doctor. "He has a bruised kidney, several strained muscles, and he's dehydrated. We're pushing fluids right now. He's lucky. No fractures or internal bleeding. However, I'd like to keep him at least over night, just to be sure. Whoever had him has been shooting him full of Valium, so he's a little out of it yet. He's gonna hurt like hell for the next few days."

We were all nodding like idiots. I moved aside in deference to Eleanor and Ruth, then asked the doctor, "when can we see him?"

"You can go back two at a time until we get him into a room," the doctor said. After a chaotic spate of bickering that was half signed and half spoken, I waved Ruth and Eleanor through the double doors separating the emergency area from the waiting room. It was probably selfish, but when I got back there, I wanted him to myself, and I didn't care if I had to sleep in one of their molded plastic chairs, I was going to stay with him.

"You go when they come back," I told Aaron and went to find a seat. Aaron looked like he still wanted to argue the point, but finally nodded.

Finally, the family had seen him and Brass had gotten a statement, albeit a drug-muddled one, and I let myself back to see him. He was awake, the bed propped up slightly. I broke into a gimpy trot to get to his side sooner. While I'd been pacing my muscles had stayed loose, but sitting had given them time to reconsider any further movement, and they were protesting vehemently.

He was the first one to speak. "Why couldn't you wait for one of the guys to handle it?" His voice was gruff and a little sleepy, but his eyes were as sharp as ever.

I stepped over to him and clutched his hand, bringing it to my lips, " 'cause they're slow," I gave him a crooked smile.

"You could've been hurt," he continued, not beguiled by my attempt at humor. "Not to mention Brass said his guys had a hell of a time keeping track of you."

"What?"

"Brass had people following you after Mom and Ruth got here. You didn't know?" he asked, surprised.

"No, I didn't. Jim never said a thing to me about it. He mentioned it early on, but I didn't know if that was a good idea or not, so I talked him out of it," I replied.

"You still should have let them handle it. What if he'd gone after you?"

"He did, Gil. Through you. If you think I'll let you go without a fight, you're wrong. Do you know how empty things were for the last week and a half? Knowing that you were hurting, with the possibility that I'd never see you again? I can't be passive about that." I squeezed his hand. "What're you gonna do, spank me?" I teased to lighten the mood.

"I might," he threatened. "They told me how hard you pushed yourself...I don't know how you handled the situation like you did."

"Gerard's lucky I didn't offer him up to some obscure Mayan deity specializing in conscious entrail extraction. I don't care what it took, I was getting you the hell away from that bastard."

He sighed and squeezed my hand in his, and I noted the angry red marks on his wrists from the cords. Anger clenched my gut again as I thought about the last week and a half.

"I can't argue this with you, can I?" he asked, looking tired.

"No, you can't," I told him, pulling the chair closer to the bed so I could sit down next to him. "Can I get you anything? Are you chilly?"

"I'm fine," he replied, a chuckle rippling through the statement.

"What's so damn funny?" I asked sharply. I'd spent the last week scared as hell, and I was ready to bend over backwards to make sure he had everything he needed. And he found something funny.

"Nothing," he said, even though the chuckle continued.

I arched an eyebrow at him, "keep it up. I'll find a way to make you laugh so hard it hurts." I looked pointedly ribs I knew too well were bruised.

He was laughing a little now, "you would, wouldn't you?"

"You know it. I know for a fact they're trying to let the drugs work their way out of your system before they give you anything for pain, so I know you aren't totally doped up. What is it about this situation that you find so humorous?"

"One of these days you're going to have to admit that you aren't invincible. It takes all the fun out of chivalry," he laughed. "You look like hell."

"Why thank you. And frankly, I don't see you winning any beauty contests in the near future, either," I found myself repressing a small laugh as I reached over to run my thumb along the gauze dressing taped above his eyebrow. After a few minutes of battling, I let go of a smile. "I love you," I told him softly, and settled further into the chair, still holding his hand in mine.

"I know," he smiled back. "I love you, too."

I sighed contentedly and twined my arm in his, happy to feel his warmth against some part of me finally. I was asleep in minutes.

Two days of blood work, x-rays and general poking and prodding later, they allowed him to come home. That evening, after dinner, I curled up in bed with him and pretended to read an article over his shoulder. In reality, I was letting my mind drift while I enjoyed having him in bed with me again ---- like he should be. I must have gotten to daydreaming, because when he set his glasses on the night table and closed the journal, I didn't even notice.

"Pop quiz," he said, jolting me out of my daze. "Which mosquito is the vector for West Nile virus?"

Luckily I'd kept up on my epidemiology, but it wasn't enough to get me a passing grade. "They thought it was Aedis Aegypti, didn't they?" I hazarded. I seemed to remember research changing that ruling last summer, though.

"Wrong," he told me, smiling. "Looks like you have some homework to do."

"How about a different subject?" I asked.

"Like trigonometry?" he teased as his arm went around my shoulder and pulled me closer to him.

"You know perfectly well I stink at math. I was thinking about something along the lines of anatomy."

"Okay, how about osteology. How many bones in the human foot?"

"Thirty--two," I answered confidently. "You're warmer, but that still isn't quite where I was headed with this." To emphasize my point, I leaned into him and kissed his shoulder, taking a moment to taste his skin. Screw Disneyland, the happiest place on earth was right there, in this moment, in this bed, with him. I draped one leg over his and snuggled into him.

His fingers drew lazy circles on my shoulder, and I closed my eyes in contentment. "Oh, I get it," he feigned sudden understanding, "you were thinking erotic, not esoteric."

"I think you get an A," I mumbled into his neck, where I had begun kissing him slowly, taking the time to enjoy how his skin felt under my lips, warm and soft.

His fingers were now tracing my collarbone, gliding lightly back and forth. Instead of replying, he ducked his head a little so that his lips could find mine, catching them in a slow, sensual kiss that raised goose bumps over my entire body. God, I'd missed this. I carefully let my hand slip down his chest, mindful of some of the deeper bruises that still discolored parts of his torso and back, and felt him gasp a little when I let my fingers come to rest on his thigh.

He almost immediately upped the ante, slipping his tongue over and past my lips. I took the bait, indulging myself in the taste of him, letting my own tongue wander over his, stroking it, coaxing it further into my mouth so that I could suck on it gently. A not so subtle hint of other things that were occupying my mind at the moment.

I felt the muscle of his thigh twitch under my hand and smiled a little under his lips as I realized my attentions were having the desired effect. In response, I reached for his inner thigh and started massaging the muscles there lightly, pushing myself as far into him as I thought I dared without causing discomfort. It was taking a great deal of my self-control not to just pounce on him. I felt him pushing back into me, and I started to roll with him onto my back for a moment. As much as the idea of being ravished by an incredibly sexy man appealed to me, I stopped myself, placing my hands on his shoulders, finally breaking the kiss.

It took a couple breaths before I found my voice; all the while he was looking at me expectantly. "What, are you going for extra credit?" I smiled, pushing him gently onto his back. "Nope. I'm going to take care of you this time," I leaned down and pressed my lips into his chest. "I'm going to kiss every one of those bruises better, and that's just a start." I let my tongue wander over his skin with the next few kisses, looking up at him. "I've missed this." I snaked my arm around to caress his side down to his hip. "Do you know how much I love this? Showing you how much I love you?" I let my lips wander over his chest until I reached his nipple, flicking my tongue over it lightly. He drew a sharp breath and I looked up to see he'd closed his eyes.

I lowered my voice, "I love the way you feel, and the way you taste." My hands moved over the curve of his backside and back over his upper thighs. "I love hearing you pant, and moan," I continued. "I love that I'm the one who gets to pay attention to all those little spots that make you shiver," my fingers snuck around the back of his leg and I massaged the spot in the middle of his thigh that was one of the places in question. His eyes were still closed, and his breath was coming faster. It was a sight that gave me a shiver of my own, and I had to take a second to refocus my thoughts.

I kept kissing his chest, running my tongue along his skin in a haphazard, general down ward path, nipping the place just below his ribs that was almost guaranteed to produce a moan. I looked up at him and couldn't resist a small laugh, "I could cover you in hickeys and no one would ever notice!"

He opened his eyes and did his best to look stern as I moved to straddle his legs. I laughed again, and lay down over him, kissing his jaw line, moving slowly back to his ear, "Gil," I whispered, running my tongue over the lobe before pressing my teeth into it lightly, "relax." One of his arms went around my waist and the other around my shoulders as he pulled me into another kiss. Good God, he was good at that. Maybe it was a product of deprivation, but it was more distracting than I remembered it. With an effort I broke away again, running my tongue over his bottom lip as I did. "You're going to be completely helpless before I'm done with you," I warned. "And you are going to love every minute of it. I want to make that perfectly controlled exterior of yours melt."

He looked at me with a sly smile as I resumed my attentions to his torso, straying over his stomach. "I want to make you the happiest man on earth," I mumbled into him, noting that he had relaxed back into the mattress as I spoke. A good indication that I should do more of that. "I love to hear you when you get off," I kept inching toward the front of his hip, taking my time to make sure I had tasted every possible inch of skin along the way. "I love the way you feel against me when you're so aroused you can't stop yourself from coming." My lips found a path down over the front of his hip and down his leg to his knee, where I dropped to the inside of his leg. I ran my tongue over his skin with every kiss, intoxicating myself with him. I hadn't realized how afraid I'd been that I might never have him like this again, that I might never have a chance to tell him I loved him or make love to him.

His hands were in my hair, his head tipped back on the pillow, his breath deep but quickening. I rapidly drove my previous thoughts from my head, forcing my attention on the fact that he was here with me now, where he belonged. I heard him whisper my name and decided to switch my attention to the other leg, starting with soft, lingering kisses at the back of his knee, making his hands tangle into my hair further as he gasped. "Do you have any idea how bad I want you?" I asked, taking a long taste of him, running my tongue up to the middle of his thigh.

His hands dropped to my shoulders and he moaned. "That's it," I encouraged quietly. I felt his hips twist against the mattress and his fingers dug into my muscles. "Show me what you want me to do," I told him, ignoring the tingling, throbbing desire that was working its way down from the pit of my stomach. His fingers were pulling me up as I kissed him, just until I was even with his erection. I'd actually been avoiding looking at that to keep myself from just climbing him. Now, though, I just grinned and let the tip of my tongue tease the underside. "That's what you want?" I looked up and was surprised to see him watching me through half open eyes. I made another pass with my tongue, slower this time, lingering at the head, circling it. With more pressure, I slid back down to the base of his shaft, then quickly back up to the tip again, then back down. I was rewarded with a groan when I dipped lower, stroking his balls, tasting one and then the other, covering them with soft kisses. Keeping my arms planted on either side of his hips, I made one more pass, starting between his balls, straight up the length of him, using my tongue to massage him with small, firm circular motions, until I reached the head. "That's all you want?" I teased, a little surprised that he was still watching me. I was doubly surprised when his hips came off the bed. "I take that as a no," I answered my own question, licking the beads moisture from him. "You want more?" I gave the tip an open mouthed kiss. "Show me," I coaxed.

When his hands on my shoulders pushed me upright I panicked, looking up at him, searching his face for some indication of what had happened. "Did I hurt you?" I asked, my hands wandering over him. He was rearranging the pillows behind him and leaning back in a sitting position. Then his hands were back on my shoulders.

"I'll be just fine if you keep doing that," he said between short breaths.

I quickly complied, still taking my time with my attentions, only more sensitive to his responses now, afraid that I'd made him uncomfortable. This, however, was only serving to intensify my own desire. Every breath he took, the sporadic moans, warm hands on my shoulders, the way he smelled and tasted, the way he responded to my lips and my hands on his skin...my own breath was coming more quickly just thinking about how he would feel inside me. I continued pressing open mouthed kissed into the head of his penis, all the way around it, taking the barest taste of him on the last before I let my head nod forward slightly, pulling a little of him into my mouth at a time. I could feel his eyes on me, and finally appeased him by taking him all the way into my mouth and sucking on him lightly.

His groan tapered off into a series of panted moans and I felt his hips twitch again, pushing himself into me. I closed my eyes and continued to suck at him, my tongue playing over him, wrapping around him, running up and down the sides. I moaned in return, increasing the pressure of my tongue, the intensity of the suction, working my way up and down him. I started slowly, wanting to prolong things, but gave in to him when his hips kept pushing up and his fingers pressed into my shoulders; he was moaning steadily now as I sucked up and down the length of him with increasing speed.

Finally, I heard him speak clearly: "I need you."

I looked up at him from my position between his legs and moaned appreciatively, making him shiver a little, before I moved away from him. I thought I would tease him a little more, but that thought went out the window when I saw his eyes. I don't think he'd ever stopped watching me the whole time, and there was something raw in them that I couldn't resist.

Just the feeling of his hips between my legs was incredible, and I had to reach for his shoulders so I wouldn't fall over. He held me as I moved over him, steadying me as I wrapped one hand around his erection, and took him into myself, slowly lowering myself until he was completely buried.

My back felt weak as his hands went to my hips, raising them and letting them drop onto him again, setting a steady rhythm as I lost myself to him. I was being stretched in all the right ways, he was consistently drumming against my g-spot, and one of his hands had reached between us and was working my clit in tight, rapid circular motions. My hips were moving at their own will, pulling back and grinding into him hard, my legs unwinding to wrap around his waist so that I could pull him into me as far as possible, until I couldn't tell where he stopped and I began.

I wasn't even aware of the room around us any longer; it was just me and him, our hips falling into each other, harder and faster. He was moaning and I felt his lips moving against my neck as I leaned into his body, winding my arms around his neck to pull him into me, so that I could feel his skin slipping against mine as I felt a light sweat break out all over me at once.

I was pounding into him now, my legs shaking, my voice breaking away from me in frantic moans. My fingers dug into his back until I was sure that the nails would leave marks, but I couldn't stop. Instead, I continued to plead with him, begging for his orgasm, desperate to feel him come inside of me. I felt my inner muscles trembling and aching as they tensed around him.

Then, without warning, I felt his arms on my shoulders, pushing me down as his hips slammed into me one last time, the force of the final thrust making him shudder under me, taking me with him. All of the muscles in my body flexed, all wanting to close themselves around him as tight as possible. I heard him cry out against my shoulder as he came, then time slowed to a stop as he spilled into me, so hard that I felt the heated swell and shudder of his release inside, stealing my ability to move or breathe or do anything but feel.

It took one almost blinding moment before I fully felt my own orgasm wash over me, bringing time out of stasis as my muscles contracted around him then spasmed, pulling anything left from him as I forced myself down onto him as hard as I could. His hand had resumed its attention to my clit, and I collapsed into him, moaning as the spasm slowed to a shudder, before it quietly faded and I felt tears blending in with the sweat on my face.

straddling his lap, head down on his shoulder, just catching my breath, counting my blessings. "I love you." I told him softly.

His arms tightened around my waist and I felt him kiss my neck. "I love you too."

Eventually I got up and freshened up a little, delighting in the fact that he would be waiting for me, safe and sound, when I got back. I didn't even care if he snored or hogged the bed ever again - all things that meant he was right where he was supposed to be.

When I walked back in, he reached out for me, encouraging me to settle back into his arms - as if I needed a whole lot of encouragement. I let my head rest on his shoulder and sighed. Yup. The happiest place on earth. And yet, there had been something nagging at me since the hospital. It wasn't the first time I'd had to meet him there over the last two years, for sure. And it probably wouldn't be the last.

"Is Nevada a common law state?" I asked tentatively.

I felt his head cock to one side as he looked down at me. "Why?"

"Is that an, 'I don't know?' " I asked, kissing a particularly nasty bruise below his collarbone.

"No, that's a 'why?' "

"Because I was wondering if you think you can manage to keep yourself out of the hospital for a few years." I told him. "All the times I've had to meet you down there, I had to bum rush both the hospital and the lab administration to get to you. Its not that I won't fight to get to you. I'm just tired of it. And you've always been coherent enough to tell them to let me in - what if you weren't?" I could hear the almost pathetic worry creeping into my voice as I rattled on. "What if I couldn't get to you?" I looked up at him, trying to read his expression.

"I don't think I've spent that much time in emergency rooms," he mumbled.

"How about when you almost got blown up looking for Nick? The time you had to go get a tetanus shot because you stepped into discarded barb wire at a scene? The knee that was out of service for a couple weeks when you slipped in a patch of mud at the scene? The new lab tech who dropped a test tube and almost gassed the entire trace lab -- including you? Should I go on?" I justified my rant.

He had the good grace to look a little sheepish as he put the pieces together. "And if Nevada is common law, and I can stay out of the hospital for a few years, the next time you have to chase me down at Desert Palm, you'll be the default next of kin and they won't give you any nonsense."

"Exactly," I confirmed. "Same goes for you, you know."

He was silent for a few moments, mulling over what I'd put out there. We'd never really discussed any sort of 'official' aspect of our relationship. We figured as long as we each knew where the other one stood, that was plenty. Much to Eleanor and Ruth's chagrin. Ruth was the most vocal about wanting to 'see him get married before she died.' Eleanor simply looked disappointed at times and left it at that. But, I was getting a definite feel for the advantages of a piece of paper work that allowed for certain privileges. I mean, one of these days, I'd be too old to push past whoever got in my way. Then I'd be stuck in one of those cruddy vinyl chairs, reading a three-year-old magazine, waiting and wondering, until someone saw fit to tell me or he told them to let me in. And what if he couldn't? That was the phrase that kept rattling around in my head, driving me to distraction the last few days. What if?

I couldn't help interrupting his thoughts - this had been weighing on me for far too long. "I know that this isn't really your thing…"

"Who says?" he cut me off.

"Huh?" I responded stupidly.

Then I continued. "Well, if it were something that you felt strongly about, I'm sure we would have discussed it before now. I mean, I don't need to file some piece of paper with the state to prove that I love you and I want to be with you. You know that. At least, I hope you know that," I was babbling again. How in the hell he could still make me nervous like this after two years never failed to surprise me. "Besides. Ruth and your Mom haven't exactly been silent on the issue the last few years, and you've always skirted around it."

"That doesn't mean I'm against it," he said.

"Huh?" Wow. I was on a roll, here.

He laughed quietly, and I felt myself blushing a little bit. "I'm not against it. I just don't think that it's a step to take just to please other people. And you're right about the piece of paper. I don't need that to know where I want to be, and I'm glad to hear that you don't need it either," he sighed. "I guess that my work has jaded me a little to the whole thing. Married couples do the worst things to each other," he rolled his eyes. "And really, how different is what we have from being married?"

Following his line of thinking made me think he was reasoning through it like any other problem. Making a list of factors, weighing what he knew against what he didn't. It was my turn to have a little laugh.

"What?" he asked, visibly pulling his thoughts back to the present.

"I don't know - listening to you rationalize your way through this. Its entertaining."

"Why?"

"Maybe that's what all those other married couples do wrong, anyway. They don't think about this stuff before they jump in," now I was the one following a tangent.

"You could be right. That, and we have age and wisdom on our side," he added with a smile.

"I suppose we do at that. So what are you thinking? Can you go without getting attacked or injuring yourself?" I asked, trying to bring the conversation back to where it had started.

"I think you wore me out and we should sleep on the idea for a little while," he said carefully, scooching down into the bed, pulling me with him, and settling in.

I just smiled and wrapped myself around him, and let myself drift into a contented doze.

The trial had been fairly simple. Gerard had tried to bargain the charge down to no avail. The jury found him guilty on all charges, and the judge maxed out his sentence without a second thought. All that remained was statements from the victim, and in this case, the victim's significant other.

Gil declined to speak, preferring to wash his hands of the entire thing. I, on the other hand, wasn't going to be satisfied nearly so easily. The idea that there was a whole room full of people behind me, a panel of jurors in front of me, as well as attorneys, clerks, bailiffs, a judge, and miscellaneous other court 'gophers' didn't phase me for once. I'd been waiting for months to say my piece.

The entire lab crew was sitting in the peanut gallery, their support an almost tangible force behind me. I'd sat in the back with Gil, so I had plenty of time to make an entrance on my way up to the podium.

And make an entrance I did. Tailored skirt suit, hair fixed, I even wore heels. And, of course, my rubies and garnets. I didn't even have any note cards with me. Just walked up to that podium one step at a time, one breath at a time, watching Gerard squirm in his new jumpsuit. I was gonna let him have it. I wanted to show him what it was like for the rest of us that week and a half. Tell him that I hoped he knew that same feeling for the next twenty-five plus years. All day, every day.

But when I got up to the podium, it all went away. He wasn't even looking at me. He was staring at the microphone like it was the most fascinating thing on the planet. I felt all the anger and bitterness drain out through my feet.

And somehow I still knew exactly what I was going to say. What I needed to say as opposed to what I'd thought I wanted to say ---- there is a difference. What I needed to say were the things that would heal. My heart wanted to inflict damage, to lash out at him because I felt that I'd failed to protect the person closest to me. My soul and my gut knew better, though, and that became clear the instant I reached the podium and really looked at the man for the first time in months.

Finally, after a few moments, I found my voice again. It wasn't harsh, or loud. If anything, I felt clear.

"Look at me when I talk to you," for all that I felt like I was almost whispering, I felt my words echo off the walls and Gerard's head snapped to attention. His eyes were focused on mine, almost as if he expected me to be the first to look away. Tough luck there, pal.

"I have spent the last twenty five years punishing myself for your greed and duplicity. Now, I have spent the last six months praying to God that you would find hell on earth where ever you wind up, only to feel that that would be too good for you. You have lost everything ---- you career, your reputation, the respect of your colleagues, the adulation of students; and all because of your own lack of moral compass.

"And yet, now that I'm here." I paused, studying him. "Now all I feel is pity. I forgive you. Make no mistake. Forgiveness doesn't wipe the slate clean. I forgive you because I can't allow your lack of ethics to control how I respond to people and situations. You aren't worth it. And I'm sorry that it took me this long to find that out. In forgiving you, I know that you acted on your own, and that there was nothing I could do to control that. I let go of whatever anger, and hurt, and bitterness I have because of you. If I don't, then you have a voice in everything that I do. The idea that you could continue to speak through my actions nauseates me.

"Its enough for me that you have proven yourself wrong," he was looking down again, and I cleared my throat to bring his attention back. "I am so incredibly proud of this team of investigators that you have tried twice now to tank in the court room. They did their jobs ethically, and thoroughly the first time, and prevailed. The second time, they acted out of affection for one of their own, under circumstances that would have broken most other groups, and still they prevailed. Each time they've taken your own words and deeds and deciphered the truth from them. That is why I believe that ethics and humanity will win out in this world, and why I will continue to work toward making things better. Being able to respect myself is worth more than a fat bank account.

"For my own part, I'm glad to be rid of you." It was all I could think of to finish, so I turned and walked back to the back of the audience and sat next to Gil, and watched passively as the formerly illustrious Phillip Gerard was led from the court room to whatever life awaited him beyond.

Would you like to submit a review?

Skin Design by Alyse of Unconscious Mind, using brushes from echoica, evenstar and roshiweb. Category icons from Iconbazaar. This site is run on eFiction v1.1.

Disclaimer: The characters of CSI, CSI: Miami and CSI: NY are the property of CBS Broadcasting Inc and Alliance-Atlantis Communications. No copyright infringement is intended.


	8. Part 8

**Author's Note: sorry about the delay...this was semi finished at best, and took more tweaking than I anticipated (thanks, csi-fan, for all your help!). Immediately follows Part Seven. No chapter breaks to speak of -- wasn't sure where to put them where it wouldn't end up interrupting continuity. This is the last of Autonomy, but there's more in the works for this batch of characters. Thanks to all who have read, and reviewed, and helped; I loved reading feed back from everyone, and am looking forward to more.**

**  
Disclaimers going out in all directions. If you make money off your name, and I mentioned you, it wasn't with any intention of infringing upon your profit margin.   
**

It had all started innocently enough; Eleanor had been trying to distract Vanessa for a while by encouraging her to plan a get away for her and Gil to attend a family reunion. He would have plenty of leave coming when they found him -- they always said _when --_ it would be a perfect time for a road trip. Besides, she reminded the woman she'd come to regard as a daughter, how did it look that they'd been together as long as they had and she had yet to meet rest of his family?

Meeting Gil's family wasn't exactly the top of Vanessa's list of 'must-dos' -- the whole concept was nerve wracking. Was it really that big a deal that she hadn't met them yet? It hadn't quite been three years. However, planning the trip hadn't been nearly as nerve wracking as pacing the floor, waiting for a knock on the door or a phone call. So, in spite of her better judgment, she had indulged Eleanor in planning for an extended vacation in Marina del Rey.

'The Family' consisted of his father's side -- a collection of Aunts and Uncles and cousins who had gradually trickled out to the west coast from the east. She'd heard about most of them, and seen pictures. And now that the day of their departure was quickly approaching, she was thinking she could have spent the rest of her life contentedly knowing them from a distance. She had no problem with pictures and stories about them. It was worrying about all the ways she could possibly come off as a complete screw up in front of these people that turned her stomach to lead.

Unfortunately, the whole matter was settled. Once Gil was released from the hospital, Eleanor and Ruth had pitched the idea to him and he'd gone along willingly enough with their plans. He found that, in light of recent experiences, getting some distance between himself and Las Vegas had a certain appeal. Vanessa understood that and, putting his needs ahead of her own (admittedly silly) anxieties, found herself packing her suitcase, sticking a list of packed items into her backpack, and finally tossing a garment bag and her lap top into the trunk of the car so they could head out.

At the last minute, a wave of panic hit her and she rushed past him to the bathroom, throwing the door closed and sitting down on the lid of the toilet, forcing herself to take deep breaths.

"You're gonna be all right," she kept telling herself between wheezing gulps of air.

The door opened and he found himself unable to repress a small laugh.

"What?" she snapped at him, continuing to wheeze while stuffing her head between her knees.

"Are you really that nervous about this? Why did you even go along with it?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the tub to be close to her.

"Yes, I am really that nervous. I'm gonna screw it up. In case you don't remember, I almost did with your Mom and Ruth. This time I get to do so in front of a much larger audience. I went along with it because I thought your Mom was just trying to distract me so that she could distract herself..." she looked up at him, puzzled. "Did that last part make sense?"

"I understand what you mean," he told her, resting his arm over her shoulder, "And the only one who I can imagine will have a problem will be Norman. He's got a problem with everything, though. No one pays him any attention." Norman was his father's eldest brother.

She just sat there shaking her head, still bent at the waist. At least the wheezing had stopped.

"Besides, you have the votes of the two most important people in the family – mom and Ruth. And of course, you have mine. I'd tell the whole bunch to go to hell if they gave you any trouble." His arm tightened around her and she relaxed into him, glad that the bruises for the most part, had faded, and she no longer had to worry that she'd cause him discomfort by simply showing affection.

She nodded a little, feeling a little more solid now that her breathing had evened out.

"Not to mention, I don't think Lindsey would ever get over it if she didn't get the chance to house sit and take care of the bugs," he smiled.

Lindsey had grown into a stunning young woman; all of her mother's looks and will and intelligence. She'd gotten her driver's license earlier in the summer and was planning on early graduation. Contrary to her mother's wishes, she wasn't planning on going straight to college. Instead, she had gotten a part time job waiting tables, which she was considering staying with while she figured out exactly what it was that _she _wanted. She'd jumped at the opportunity to look after the town house while they were away. In fact, she would be there any minute to receive the keys to the castle and assume her duties.

In light of this, Vanessa squared her shoulders and stood up.

"Would you stop looking like I'm taking you to a firing squad?", he teased as he followed her out of the bathroom.

"I think I'm going to request a blindfold and a last cigarette", she replied shakily, smiling as she stepped out the back door.

The trip took two days with various stops for meals, rest, and historic markers. Vanessa found, to her immense relief that the rest of the family wouldn't arrive until the next day. Aaron was finishing exams for a summer quarter and would fly out over the weekend. Eleanor must have been watching for them because she walked out the front door as soon as they pulled into the driveway.

Vanessa's sign language had come a long way since the first visit, and she immediately joined the conversation between mother and son while a neighbor openly stared at the three of them.

"What do you think, Mom? Should I tell her to take a picture?" Gil signed, indicating the nosy neighbor and smiling mischievously.

"Gil," she admonished, trying to appear stern. Oddly, it looked a lot like the expression with which Gil often regarded Greg's antics. Before the imp that Eleanor knew too well lived in her son got a chance to take over, she ushered the two of them into the house with a smile and a wave to the neighbor. The neighbor had the decency to look a bit ashamed.

"Ruth is at the grocery store. She'll be back shortly," Eleanor spoke as they entered the cool interior. "Coffee's brewing. Why don't you kids sit down?"

The evening passed in easy conversation after the luggage was settled and dinner was through. Vanessa insisted on doing dishes, giving Gil a chance to spend time with his immediate family.

She heard bits and pieces of conversation from the front room as her hands worked over plates and glasses, carefully setting them in the drainer. The sound of muted conversation and the smell of coffee soothed her frazzled nerves as she put the finishing touches on the kitchen. She almost broke out laughing when she heard Ruth say something that she could swear was, "you scared the shit out of me, bubeleh! Don't you _ever _do that again!"

That was followed up with Eleanor's crisp, clear voice. "Let go of him, Ruth, for Heaven's sake!"

She stood in the doorway that led from the kitchen to the living room and just watched for a few minutes as Ruth hugged him ferociously. She felt like she was in a Hallmark commercial, where people feel all warm and fuzzy -- realizing that this was her family, after she'd spent what seemed like an eternity without. She'd never been close with her own parents, who were more concerned with making the right impression on others than anything else. As their daughter, she'd been their vehicle for keeping the appropriate appearance in the world. When she'd changed her career path, they hadn't understood; endlessly fighting her on it until she finally left home to go to college without a single backward glance. They hadn't made any move to call her back so she hadn't seen them since. It wasn't the sole point of contention between Vanessa and her parents, but it had been the last straw as far as she had bee concerned. For all she knew, they were both still alive and living in a suburb of Cleveland.

Since her estrangement, she'd found temporary families: disaster relief teams, political campaign groups and community organizations.

The nature of these "families" was temporal, though, much like her work. People gathered for a particular goal and, when achieved, quickly scattered, finding new work elsewhere. They were incredibly close, and stayed in contact, but there was a certain lack of permanence that Vanessa and her cohorts had accepted from the beginning. That's where the scene in front of her was different, where it tugged at her spirit and gave her a feeling of being rooted. There was nothing temporary about this. It was a little overwhelming, but as she considered the feeling more closely, it was also good.

"Vanessa," Eleanor caught sight of her and smiled. "What are you doing standing there?" Before Vanessa knew it, she found a gentle hand on her shoulder guiding her into the living room again.

"I'm thinking that I might have to fight Ruth. Looks like she might have designs on my man," she teased, grinning.

Ruth released Gil from their embrace but held his face and pinched his cheek so hard he winced before she sat down in her own chair again.

"What, am I five again?" he groused.

"No. You're just still my baby, that's all," Ruth told him airily, looking at Eleanor, who nodded approval at the statement.

"I'm fifty," he told them flatly.

"I don't care…and it's fifty-two. I keep count. Remember the message I left you on your last birthday?" Ruth pursued the subject while Eleanor bit back laughter at her son as he began to fidget under the attention.

"Ruth, how could I forget? You sang Happy Birthday in Yiddish at nine in the morning," he returned, attempting to maintain his dignity by appearing nonplussed.

Vanessa, however, remembered the message as well, and started to laugh into her hands. He turned to her, "et tu, darling?"

"I'm sorry," she laughed helplessly. "The more you try to play this off, the funnier it gets. I can't help it!" She reached over to hug him, and he finally gave in to the smile that he had been staving off.

They talked and laughed until close to midnight, Eleanor and Ruth regaling Vanessa with stories of Gil's childhood, Gil relating stories from the lab, and Vanessa losing herself in the easy, good humored exchange that she hadn't realized had been missing from her life until that evening.

"Where'd you find the hippie, Gil?" a rasping voice from the back seat scoured over the music.

They'd just driven to the airport to pick up a handful of relatives who had migrated to Arizona for their retirement. It was Norman, Gil's uncle on his father's side, that had let loose with that particular jibe -- not the first, either. At the comment, Vanessa's hands tightened on the wheel and she took a deep breath. She didn't see Naomi, Herb's wife, elbow Norman in the ribs for his comment. Instead, out of sheer spite, she turned up the stereo so that John Denver blared out of all possible speakers. Then she did something that left Gil staring at her with his mouth hanging open. She sang along. Loud.

"Ay, Calypso, I sing to your spirit/ The men who have served you so long and so well," her voice carried over the music as Gil turned the stereo down again. She glanced into the rear view mirror in time to see Naomi stifling a grin by intently staring out her window.

"Uncle Norman, she's an associate professor at UNLV," Gil asserted, looking a little exasperated already. The expression on his face suggested that he didn't think it would be the last time he explained that fact to the old curmudgeon.

"She listens to hippie music. I remember what those days were like. Long hair, drugs, protests**…"** Norman was going to prove his point.

"Norman, stop it," Naomi admonished. "You've hardly spoken to her."

"Yeah. What does she teach, anyway?" he grumped.

"Why don't you ask her?" Naomi again, getting ready to lay down the law, eyebrows lowered behind her glasses.

The rest of the ride passed in silence, and Vanessa resisted the urge to stomp on the brakes when they got to the driveway of Eleanor and Ruth's duplex, recently renovated to remove the wall separating the two dwellings, making for a larger kitchen and a great deal more room for guests. It would have been satisfying to give the cranky old guy a jolt. But it would also be grandly immature. Sometimes, there was just no way to win.

Vanessa was the first one out; opening the trunk, helping with luggage. Norman made his way into the house, muttering something about foreign cars and hippies and not looking back at Vanessa, who was hoisting his bags onto her shoulders.

"Don't mind him," Naomi told her. "He's like that with everyone. Especially if he hasn't been around the rest of the family for a while."

Herb was on his way out to help with the luggage, and over heard his wife consoling Vanessa. "It takes the Grissom women to keep him in line," he said with a smile, gallantly reaching for one of the largest suitcases. "What the hell," he puffed, picking it up. "Does he think he's staying for a month?"

"Who knows what that old fart thinks," Naomi rolled her eyes. "He probably packed a suitcase full of bricks just for spite."

When they got into the living room, Norman was already holding court in the kitchen, a cup of coffee clutched in his hand and a cigarette dangling over a saucer in front of him.

"Norman, what do you think you're doing?" Naomi scolded as Ruth made her way into the kitchen.

"Having a cup of coffee." He told her placidly.

"You know that Eleanor and Ruth don't smoke. Take that thing outside," she countered.

Norman actually turned in his seat so that he was facing away from her instead of replying.

Vanessa was just staring at them, observing the exchange between brother and sister, so she was surprised when there was a hand on her arm and she was being pulled into the living room. Then, there were arms around her waist and she let go of a breath she hadn't even been aware she was holding.

"Sorry about that. I tried to warn you," he mumbled into her hair as she wound her arms around him.

"It's okay. I've got a thicker skin than all that," she replied with a confidence she didn't quite feel. If she'd let people like Norman get to her, she'd have been run out of her own profession a long time ago. More than Norman's attitude, she was concerned about being faced with 'the Grissom women', his father's five sisters, who were the stuff of legend in the family. Eleanor had been the last one really accepted into the fold, and by proxy, Ruth.

"Knock it off, you two, or I'll turn a hose on ya," Norman grumbled, catching sight of Gil and Vanessa as he made his way to the back porch. His comment was followed by a mumbled tirade that included epithets and something about grown ups acting like a couple of teenagers, framed in the lingering scent of a cigarette.

A few nights later, Vanessa found herself included in a game of canasta with 'the Grissom women.' Eleanor, Ruth, Naomi, Margaret, Dolores, Jacqueline, and Elizabeth. It had been a long few days, and she was tired, but Eleanor approached her about the game in a tone that brooked no argument. So she sat, a glass of shiraz by her side, listening to the idle chatter that flowed between the women as they sat bent over the cards.

She looked up from her cards, scanning the rest of the women, who were all darting surreptitious looks at her from behind their cards. Then they'd look between each other, as if they weren't sure who should start the real discussion.

Vanessa's attention was caught briefly by a cell phone that threatened to vibrate its way off the counter beside her -- a quick look told her it was Gil's. She opened it and looked at the caller ID and noticed it was Sara. "Where's Gil?" Vanessa asked the other women.

Elizabeth snorted, "Who cares where the men are," she threw a card into the discard pile.

"Amen," Naomi echoed. "If Herb knew how easy that sauce is to make, I'd never have an excuse to get him out of the house again." The rest of them burst out laughing.

Vanessa frowned at the caller ID and decided to pick up, "Hey there."

Her voice sounded a little startled on the other end, and the connection was terrible. "Is Gris there?"

"Apparently this is a no-men-allowed party at the moment. I have no idea where he is. Can I help you with something?" she asked, hopefully.

"No," the other woman sounded frustrated. "I've got maggots."

"That could be a problem," Vanessa joked. The other women were all watching her. She wondered if that was how the maggots felt right now. "So, what's up?"

"If I could get at his text books, Greg and I could probably figure this out, but I can't," Sara growled. "He was supposed to leave his office unlocked so we could get to that stuff."

Vanessa smiled a little, "is that all? Brass keeps a spare key taped to the underside of a very special item in the bottom drawer of his desk. Tell him I told you about it."

"Special item?" Sara echoed, a knowing laugh coloring her question.

"One of the perks of having your own office is the privilege of hiding contraband in it. If you can't find what you need there, Lindsey is staying at the town house, and you can go poke around there. She should be off her shift at the diner soon," Vanessa checked her watch, "you can probably catch her in about half hour."

"Hey, thanks," Sara told the older woman.

"No problem," Vanessa laughed, temporarily forgetting the other women at the table, reveling in talking to someone she knew. "I'll tell him to check email when he gets in -- you can send some pictures. That way you'll know for sure. I thought he was going over this stuff with you guys," her eyebrows knit low.

"Yeah, well, I'm no good when it comes to these goddam maggots. I can't tell one of them from another. I don't know how he does it. Once they're flies, I can tell the difference easily enough, but until then..."

"Shit," Vanessa shook her head, taking a sip of her wine. "I'd say watch the little buggers until they turn into flies and try to separate them out, but you'd have to be on them constantly. I don't know...tell you what. Go plow through some texts and call back. If he isn't here, I'll answer and we'll figure this out." Vanessa told her. Over the last few weeks in particular, she'd felt a growing attachment to Sara, and hung up almost reluctantly.

There were five sets of eyes, in varying shades of green to blue, all fixed on her. All except for Eleanor and Ruth, whose eyes were fixed on their own cards.

"So," Dolores had been silent the whole time, but now her attention was focused on Vanessa, who was fighting not to fidget under the sudden scrutiny. "What was that about?"

"Just the lab. They've got maggots," she parroted Sara's opening line.

Eyebrows shot up and pale blue eyes regarded her critically. "You always answer his phone?"

"No more often than he answers mine," she countered, taking another sip of wine to brace herself for some verbal fencing.

"And you're qualified to advise his subordinates?"

"First, he doesn't think of them as subordinates. Second, if I don't try to answer a question, there's no way to know if I could have helped or not. I've read his papers and articles, among others. I have a fairly good grasp on the concept, even if my identification skills aren't as precise as his. Anything else?" she let her eyes wander over the collected group, and noticed a smile tipping the corner of Eleanor's mouth, indicating that she'd done well that round. "Whose turn is it?"

Ruth drew a card and frowned at her hand. "I haven't got squat here," she complained, throwing a card into the pile in the middle of the table.

"I'll believe that when I see it," Jacqueline told Ruth as she started her turn. Rearranging the cards in her hand, she regarded Vanessa coolly over the top of her glasses; her dark green eyes difficult to read. "So why haven't you two gotten married yet?"

"Not for any lack of effort on our part," Eleanor had been watching the proceedings intently, and interjected on her own behalf.

"We know, hon," Elizabeth reassured her with a pat on the arm.

"I don't know," Vanessa answered honestly when Jacqueline raised her eyebrows to redirect the conversation back to her original inquiry. "It's almost like we haven't had time for it; we're both so caught up in our work," she frowned a little as she watched Jacqueline lay down a run of spades on the table. "It also seems like it would invite a great deal of...inquiry...if we did something like that. From the lab and from the people I work with. Neither of us wants the time we have together to be swarmed with others like that." That didn't sound good and she knew it, and even though the topic had come up recently, she didn't feel comfortable discussing it without Gil present.

Dolores latched on to the inadequacy of her statement. "There's nothing wrong with having people who care about you in your lives," she said.

"And we do," Vanessa amended, "Up to sixteen hours a day. Sometimes seven days a week. When we have time to ourselves, we want to keep it that way. Besides, we know each other well enough to not want to push that kind of formality on each other."

Ruth cut them all off at the pass at that one. "And that's just fine, as much as I'd like to have a wedding in this family before I die," she rolled her eyes almost theatrically. No one outside the three women closest to him knew what had happened with Helen. None of them had been particularly crazy about Helen, once they'd met her, so Eleanor and Ruth had deemed it prudent to respect his privacy and leave them out of the loop on some of the darker details of their split. They knew about Aaron since Eleanor and Ruth had ascertained he was Gil's son of course, but not his 'role,' such as it were, in the demise of that particular relationship.

Meanwhile, the guys had gathered at a bar on Main Street. Herb sat down at a booth, and invited Gil to sit next to him. "You are now part of an exclusive club," his Uncle told him seriously. "It's sort of like the treehouse you had when you were a kid. Only now, the guys go hide where they can drink beer and watch sports."

Gil looked between the other six men, obviously skeptical. "I didn't have a treehouse, and you always get thrown out when Naomi makes Swedish meatballs. Secret recipe."

Norman snorted. Herb filled Gil's beer glass. Finally, it was Frank, Margaret's husband, who let him in on the secret behind the secret recipe. "That's code for 'they want us the hell out from under foot'. I know for a fact that sauce only takes a half hour to prepare. They're sitting at the table, playing cards, drinking, and gossiping."

Gary, Elizabeth's second husband, spoke up next. "And probably grilling your woman for all she's worth."

Norman snorted again and lit a cigarette. "Why do you do that, Norman?" Herb asked. "You know they banned smoking in doors. You're just gonna get asked to leave."

"It's the principal of the thing," Norman told him obstinately, puffing away.

"Maybe I should go," Gil started to get up. "I don't feel right about this."

"Sit," Gary insisted.

"Unless you want to eat Swedish meat balls for a week," Larry chimed in. "They'll find a way to get rid of us one way or another."

Lloyd interjected, "its tradition. Every time there's a family reunion like this, the ladies take a night out before the big dinner to get caught up. We get 'chased' out of the house, and they sit around and drink and play cards."

"If you know, then why don't you just offer to take off for a few hours?" Gil asked, getting exasperated with the little charade.

"Because," Herb answered, "it's more fun this way. We all feel like we're getting away with something. People need that sometimes, don't you think?"

Gil was still staring at his beer, his expression clearly reflecting his paining conscience.

"Look, kid," Lloyd said in a tone that was going to settle things once and for all, "drink your beer. Watch the game. If she can put up with you for this long -- never mind the fact she hasn't hauled off and punched Norman yet -- I'm sure she can face down the women. You mother and Ruth think the world of her. That'll go a long way. Now quit being so damn serious."

The waitress approached the table. "I'm afraid you can't smoke that in here," she told Norman in a pleasant voice.

"Who says?" he grumped.

"The state of California says. There's a smoking area outside, sir."

Norman was about to argue, but Gil stood up and cut him off. "It's a nice night, why don't we go outside?"

Norman sniffed and harumphed, but got up and followed Gil out the front door to the bench.

"So," Norman said gruffly, settling himself on the bench. "She's a professor. Even if she is a damn hippie."

Gil took a deep breath to ward off his frustration. "Yes. She teaches at the university. Sociology and political science. Anything else?"

"And what makes you think she isn't going to fuck you over the way Helen did?" the older man asked bluntly, flicking the ash off his cigarette.

Gil started a little at the mention of her name, and narrowed his eyes in speculation. "What do you know about that?"

"Enough. I ran into her at the grocery store about two years after you left. That kid in the cart was you all over again; except he already looked like he had the weight of the world on him, which just ain't right. I kept my mouth shut about it. Figured someone like her would be in your pockets soon enough for child support, and we could deal with the details then. Besides. That was your situation to contend with. Not mine."

Gil sat down next to his uncle, feeling like someone knocked his legs out from under him. "She said she got rid of him. So I left."

"I know you better than that. You're my kid brother's son. I figured she didn't tell you when she had him or something," Norman was being purposefully vague.

"Since I found out -- that she had him -- I figured she was probably happy telling people I was a dead beat and playing for sympathy," Gil heaved a sigh.

"Hmph." Norman replied, stubbing the cigarette out in the sand of the ash tray. "So what makes you think Vanessa's any better? 'Cause it about killed your mother the way you pulled away from everyone." Although he didn't say so explicitly, Gil got a feeling the mention of his mother was a mask for Norman's own feelings on the matter.

"If I'd been around more, I'd have noticed that Helen never put herself on the line for anything. Vanessa does that every day of her life. She charged a man with a gun...for me," Gil stared at his hands for a moment.

"I never told anyone this, but you were always my favorite. If the hippie makes you happy, more power to ya. If she makes you unhappy, there'll be hell to pay, is all." Norman started to get up.

"Have you spent any time at all talking to her? She has a name, you know," Gil asserted. While truly stunned and by Norman's admission, he still found himself irritated with the other man's attitude.

"You've said your piece, and I've said mine, but she needs to prove herself to _me_ before I'll get attached."

Gil walked in after him, realizing briefly that this was probably as close to affectionate conversation as Norman had ever had with anyone. And suddenly, he knew that Vanessa would be the one to worm the rest of the story out of him.

Meanwhile, the women were still playing cards. Margaret had won the first hand, just barely emptying her hand before Jacqueline. The questions were also becoming more direct as they consumed more wine.

"What kind of paycheck do you get from the college?" Dolores asked, still the interrogator of the bunch.

Vanessa snorted. "If I thought I needed to get rich, I wouldn't have gone into social service."

"So Gil makes more than you do," she pursued.

"I'm sure he does. Is this how you ask me if I'm a gold digger?" Vanessa prompted.

"I wouldn't have put it quite that way," Elizabeth muttered, rolling her eyes at her sister.

"I do what I do because it's worth every dime I'll never make. I am with Gil because I love him. Does that clear things up?" Vanessa asserted herself, assisted by the warm blush the wine was lending her.

"I suppose," Dolores huffed. Vanessa caught both Ruth and Eleanor trying not to smile this time.

Margaret was already picking up the lead though. "Why?"

"Why what?" Vanessa asked. "Does anyone need a refill?" she added as she put her hand down on the table and stood up. A few hands went up. Instead of going directly to the kitchen, though, she headed toward Gil's old bedroom, where they'd been staying for the last few nights. In her suitcase, she fished through various Ziploc bags that kept her shower supplies organized from her medications and so on. Eventually she produced a bottle of tequila.

Finally, she stopped in the kitchen on her way through and brought the wine bottle to the table. Then, she disappeared again, grabbing a juice glass from the cupboard by the sink. She sloshed a liberal shot into the glass, and slugged it back in one swallow. She wasn't good at talking about 'deep, emotional stuff.' Especially with a group of unfamiliar women who were judging her on her every move. She knew they were headed into territory that she was going to have to be very...relaxed...to deal with. So she poured another generous shot into the glass and headed back to the table.

"Why do you love him?" Margaret had the bit in her teeth. That much was obvious.

Vanessa reminded herself that they were only looking out for him the same way she would if she were in their place.

"And what's that in the glass?" Naomi asked.

"If I know her? Tequila." Eleanor provided, taking her turn.

"Then why aren't you sharing?" Dolores smiled.

"It's in the kitchen," Vanessa offered.

"I asked a question," Margaret reminded the collected women. "I'd like to get it answered before we're all too schnockered to remember the answer."

"Good point," Jacqueline approved, even as she headed into the kitchen to grab the bottle and some clean glasses. "Don't say anything till I get back."

Vanessa eyeballed her cards and weighed her options. She finally drew the requisite two, scoring a one-hundred point red three, which she threw down on the table with good humor. Then she made her discard and her thoughts turned to how she was going to answer the question put to her.

"Ruth, while we're young!" Elizabeth complained as the other woman took her time studying her cards.

Ruth waved her off, "we left that behind a few years ago," she laughed. She had such a large handful of cards that it took all of her dexterity to keep them from flying out of her grip and all over the table.

"Anyhow!" Margaret was getting impatient now that Jacqueline had returned.

And the spotlight was back on her -- she could feel the nervous sweat breaking out on the back of her neck under their collective gaze. She sipped her tequila, enjoying the way that all of a sudden, for no good reason, she felt like giggling. She took some comfort in the fact that when the questions got that blunt, and that simple, they were probably running out of hoops for her to jump through.

She looked up from her cards and just let her mind wander over the question. How does one define the reasons why one loves another; quantify them like a mathematical equation? Could it be done… boiled down to mere words, just like that? Was it even possible to give a nuts and bolts explanation of why she had confronted a psycho with a gun in order to protect her man, and would do so again, without a second thought?

She thought not, but she also thought she'd give it a try anyway. She took another sip of tequila to bolster herself and let her mind go back to the very beginning, when she'd been working in the lab, playing chess, listening to music, talking about things that other people looked at them like they'd grown spots for even thinking about.

"Why not?" she began simply, much to Margaret's obvious frustration.

"Well, there's something they have in common," Jacqueline chuckled.

"I spent a lot of years being told that my standards were too high and that was why I didn't have anyone in my life. People thought that I was frigid or weird for not having someone. I just didn't have it in me to settle for less than what I wanted. It took me longer to find it than some others, but it was well worth it."

"Well, that's a start," Margaret relented.

"How long have you and Lloyd been married?" Vanessa asked out of frustration.

"Forty years, why?"

"Do you think you could explain to someone else _why_ you love him?" Vanessa continued. "Is there a list of things that you can tick off at the drop of a hat?"

Margaret looked uncomfortable, but Dolores hid the first smile of the evening behind her cards. "I don't know. No one's ever asked. Besides, you and Gil have only been together for five years. That's nothing like forty."

"That isn't the point, really. The point is there are all sorts of reasons why I love your nephew, but to separate them into a list of traits and quirks would be almost impossible. I love him because of him -- even the parts that irritate the hell out of me. Is that good enough for you?" she finished her tequila and met the other woman's eyes defiantly.

"I guess," she replied.

Ruth chose that exact moment to dump her entire hand on to the table, gaining an extra hundred points for going out concealed, putting her heads above the rest of the group and effectively finishing the game. All in good time, too. There were headlights in the drive way as the car pulled in. Gil was the first to wander into the living room, immediately finding Vanessa and pulling her into a hug. "I had no idea. How was the inquisition?"

"I think I passed. You'll have to ask for yourself," she held him tight. "You smell like beer," she wrinkled her nose at the odor.

"Is that a request for a kiss?" he teased, leaning toward her.

"God no! It's a demand for you to go take a damn shower!" she made an indelicate noise to push her point.

"Right, hugs and kisses it is," he laughed wrapping his arms around her tighter.

She laughed and struggled against him, "Gil, you stink! Knock it off!" She laughed harder even as she wrinkled her nose again when he kissed her. Finally, she disentangled herself, both of them laughing, and she shoved him in the general direction of the bathroom. "Bathe, Gil. Now." She ordered, trying to look stern.

"Yes ma'am," he saluted with a crooked smile.

"Smart ass," she scolded. "Oh! And check your email. Sara's got maggots. I told her to ask Brass for the spare key to your office so she could rummage through your books. She should call back."

"What kind?" his eyes lit up a little.

"If she'd known, she probably wouldn't have called," Vanessa laughed softly and shook her head as he retreated to the bathroom. Although the women had collectively retreated to the kitchen when Gil had pulled Vanessa into the living room, she was sure she heard tittering laughter from the next room.

She waited until she heard the water running in the bathroom and wandered into the kitchen to find Eleanor and Ruth, with the other five, clustered around the stove and the sink, respectively tending the sauce and washing wine glasses and coffee cups, talking quietly amongst themselves.

"Did you get all the eavesdropping out of your systems for a little while?" Vanessa teased, pouring herself one more shot of tequila.

Dolores snorted with laughter while Ruth and Eleanor admonished Naomi and Margaret for instigating the spying.

"They'll have all sorts of time to themselves when they go home. While they're here, they can put up with it," Elizabeth defended their actions.

Eleanor just shook her head, smiling, signing something that Vanessa didn't understand to Ruth and the rest. "I am not!" Jacqueline sounded indignant.

Noticing that Vanessa looked a little lost, Ruth interpreted: "she called them a bunch of incorrigible busy-bodies."

"Well, I think they're a cute couple," Naomi interjected, "and why shouldn't I want to see him happy after all these years?"

Vanessa laughed in spite of herself. "You know what? I think that this is something better left to senior members of the Grissom clan to sort out," she kept her voice teasing as she downed the tequila and excused herself from the kitchen, making her way to the bedroom.

Vanessa slept fitfully that evening. While she had been told by members of the men's faction that she had 'passed,' she still had to face the next day's barbecue, when the children and grandchildren of various cousins and a few family friends would take over the house.

Finally, as the sun was just gracing the horizon with its light, she gave up, threw on her comfy flannel robe, and went to the kitchen in search of the dregs of last night's coffee. She was disappointed to find the thermos empty, but wasn't surprised after she caught a whisper of cigarette smoke through the open window. Peering through the curtains, Norman was sitting in one of the patio chairs to the left of the back door, coffee mug resting on the glass table by his side.

_Well, maybe this is my opportunity to settle this,_ she thought as she fished through cupboards until she found a box of darjeeling tea and brewed a cup in the microwave. She stepped back to the bedroom quickly, unable to resist the urge to check on Gil -- he was snoring softly, hair mussed, looking as sweet and peaceful as any man had a right to...at least in her opinion. She smiled briefly, quietly closed the door again, and, tea in hand, stepped out the back door.

Norman spared her a glance as she settled herself into the patio chair on the other side of the glass table. She let the silence hang between them as she tentatively took a sip of her tea, fishing her own cigarettes and lighter out of the pocket of her robe and lit one.

"I usually watch the sun come up by myself," he grumbled, tapping the ash off his cigarette into the ceramic ashtray on the table. It looked primitive and she couldn't help wondering if it were something Gil had crafted once upon a time.

"Well, you've got company today." She stared at the horizon, not even glancing in his direction.

He grunted and sipped his coffee -- whether this was a gesture of acceptance or annoyance, it was hard for her to tell. "So you're always up this early," she continued.

Another grunt -- signaling affirmative, she presumed.

"Look, I know you aren't stupid. How's about we throw some syllables in with those noises you're making?" she kept her gaze trained forward. "What is it that you want to know?"

"Ever since the Army," he replied.

Her eyebrows furrowed, "ever since the army...what," she ventured to draw him out.

"I've gotten up at five in the morning every day since I was in the Army."

"Okay. Old habits die hard," she admitted.

"I went so that Bobby wouldn't have to," he continued, referring to Gil's father by a childhood nickname. "He was set on moving out west, studying something. I thought one of us should have a chance, and it wouldn't have been me, anyhow. He was the only other male in the family by then. Father ran off to who knows where. Jail? He was up to his neck in bootleg liquor during prohibition, so who knows what he was doing after. I took care of things, that's all."

"So...since you can't take care of your kid brother any more, you take care of his son?" Vanessa hazarded.

"Yep." His eyes darted her way. For all that he had made it possible for Gil's father to pursue academic interests, Norman's eyes held that same cool analytical intelligence that Gil's did. It wasn't something she'd noticed in pictures of Robert. Not that Gil's father showed a lack of intellect. It was simply softened -- a look she associated with curiosity and a sense of wonder. Norman had mastered the 'bug studying' look years before Gil. Lucky for Vanessa, she'd had over two years to adjust to that look, and it no longer made her squirm.

"And you wanna know if I'm just a flake, or a bitch, or a gold digger, or what?"

Norman nodded, "I guess that about sums it up. He seems like he's happy. That's fine. I won't be happy 'til I know he's not gonna get stomped on again."

"How can I prove that?"

He finally turned to her, pinning her with his gaze, and she met him with a resolute stare of her own. "You know, his own family barely recognized him after Helen got through with him?"

Vanessa's eyebrows shot up, wondering where he was going with this. "I don't know what any of us could have done, and I don't know what I could do now, but I'm not going to see it happen again. He moved to Minnesota, and it was months before we heard from him. Eleanor and Ruth..." he shook his head and drained his coffee cup. "I watched them both die. They kept moving, and breathing, but they were dead anyhow. If Bobby had been around to see all that, I don't know. He took a long time to settle down, but when finally did, Eleanor and Gil were the most important things in his life. And if he'd seen Gil, the boy seemed like he was frozen. Then I saw the slut at the grocery store with a kid that looked just like Gil. I was afraid that would be the end of him, so I kept my mouth shut."

Vanessa broke in, "Norman, I'll tell you now. I can be a bitch. Just ask anyone who's tried to stand in Gil's way or harm him since we got together. And I will probably be a bitch with him sometimes. That's how things go, and I'll do everything I can to make it right if I am. But you have my word that I will never hurt him intentionally. That's the best I can do."

With another grunt Norman considered her words, and Vanessa stamped out her cigarette. "I haven't met Aaron yet. What kind of a young man is he?"

"I think you'll be proud of him -- I am. He's...a lot like Gil. It's like looking in time warp mirror. But he's got Gil's sense of compassion and justice. He's overcome a great deal in the last few years; things that he went through growing up with Helen, adjusting to family. I hope I've helped -- I can relate to that in my own way," she trailed off, staring absently at the dregs of her tea.

"He's in school?"

"Yup," Vanessa replied proudly, "one of the best in his classes. He's got this intuition about people and situations that is remarkable. He'll be a great sociologist one day." She was smiling by the time she finished.

Norman nodded absently, watching the sun crest the horizon, shimmering orange and staining high, wispy clouds.

"When Gil was...gone..." she still found herself stammering about it, "Aaron was rock steady. I don't know how he did it, and I don't know if I could have done it without him. He never flinched from anything, even when it made him uncomfortable." She paused for a breath. "Norman, I understand that you're worried about Gil but…truth be told, your nephew is surrounded by some great people over in Vegas. The team, every last one of them..." she shook her head and set her tea cup down for something to do.

"So, Vanessa," he turned to her, catching her eyes with his, a devious smile lifting the corner of his mouth, "you really clocked the shit out of this Gerard character?"

"It took one of the biggest guys on the team to keep me from flat out wrapping my hands around his throat and killing him," her voice was hard and venomous. "And I'd do it again."

Norman grunted again, then stood up. "That'll do for now," he started. "How about we get another pot of coffee started?"

The vacation was coming to a close, and Vanessa found herself surprisingly comfortable with his family, all things considered. She argued politics with Norman, learned some secret family recipes from Dolores (the keeper of family secrets in general), and collected family lore from Jacqueline (who was thrilled to find someone half way interested in the history, as she had been the sole keeper for so long). She had jumped through the necessary hoops, answered embarrassing questions, and generally been scrutinized six ways from Sunday and come through with passing marks. Apparently she was now one of the formidable clan known as the Grissom women. In a town like Marina del Rey, which had retained some of its small town atmosphere over the decades, 'the Grissom women' were spoken of like a lost tribe of Amazons in some circles. It had been a long time since Vanessa had been in a town that small, and it never failed to surprise her that people knew each others' business as well as they did.

But know they did. She probably shouldn't have been surprised at all. But she was. Things had finally settled down and she was looking greatly forward to just spending some time with the immediate family: Gil, Eleanor, Ruth and Aaron. Maybe work in the garden a little bit. Aaron had immersed himself in his Grandfather's old notes, found in a trunk in one of the closets, and was anxious to try out a few theories of his own. Gil had been on the phone off and on with the lab to help with the 'bug problem,' and helping make a few minor house repairs; with which the two ladies hadn't wanted to bother Herb or the other men. And Vanessa? Well, she'd spent a great deal of time relaxing, reading paperback novels with little or no redeeming intellectual value, but were fun none the less. Considering the work load she would be returning to, and the mill she'd just been put through, she felt justified.

But Marina del Rey was a small town, for all intents and purposes, especially among those who had been among the first couples to buy up property in the area, and any of their children who had stayed around. So she really shouldn't have been surprised when she woke up to an empty bed late one morning and an increasing level of noise from the front room.

The first thing she noticed; Gil's side of the bed was already cool, and her (now) standard reaction to that, no matter what her conscious mind tried to tell her, was a panic attack. She found herself listening carefully to the voices that seemed to fall and rise again in a seemingly random and angry rhythm, listening for his. Not that he was the type to raise his voice -- both he and Aaron were given to quiet, for oddly disparate reasons: Gil from being raised in silence, Aaron from being raised in yelling and chaos. It was a concrete example of the nature versus nurture dichotomy that she always meant to explore further when she had time.

No, the two voices that were raised were female. Ruth and another that she didn't recognize, talking over each other. Then Gil's voice, not yelling, but definitely in 'supervisor mode.' She'd heard that tone of voice a few times before, when there was a situation that demanded someone take over, usually for the protection of one or more parties involved. It didn't take any more than that for her to throw her robe over her shoulders, quickly tying the sash, and run into the front room to investigate.

She immediately assessed the situation. Aaron was standing in the corner, looking both infuriated and humiliated at the same time. Eleanor was in the kitchen with her back turned on the entire scene, and Vanessa thought she caught a well masked hitch in the woman's shoulders. Ruth, on the other hand, had assumed the role of the aggressor, standing less than a foot from a woman who was a total stranger, with Gil trying to insinuate himself between them.

Vanessa trundled to the kitchen first to hazard a better look at Eleanor, whose posture was ram-rod straight. The tears in her eyes could have been from anger or any number of other emotions, she couldn't tell. On her way through, she gave the woman a nod that she hoped looked reassuring and snagged a cup of coffee.

The noise level was quickly reaching a threshold, past which, Vanessa would no longer be able to overpower it by main force. As quickly as she could, she stepped into the middle of the trio that were the center of the argument, shoved her way between Ruth and Gil, and faced the other woman. Then she raised her voice.

"Everybody _stop!_" she demanded in a voice that would have stopped a mob. Silence quickly descended over the room. She proceeded to rearrange slightly stunned bodies so that there was more room between them. Taking a deep breath, she looked around. "That's better," her voice was normal again, possibly even a little softer than usual to enforce the need for a calmer tone all around.

"This is her?" the other woman snorted, looking down her nose at Vanessa, who stood before her in a ragged flannel robe, coffee in hand, and her hair looking like a haystack. Vanessa took the opportunity to size up what she took to be the source of contention. She was taller -- which made her average by most measurements. No amount of styling or painstaking curling could disguise the slight brittle texture of shoulder length gray hair. Her eyes were all pupil -- black, with a fine ring of soft brown at the outside. The crazed flush in her cheeks stood out against weathered skin. Her head snapped around to Aaron. "So you've replaced me, is that it?" her tone was spitting and bitter.

"Jesus, Helen, it's not like that," Aaron stepped forward.

"I thought I said stop," Vanessa repeated, still quietly, but firmly. "Go back to your corners or whatever it is you do, while I try to figure out just what the hell is going on here."

She then buried her face in her coffee cup and headed toward the kitchen, tapping Eleanor softly on the shoulder, careful not to startle her. I'm going outside for a cigarette. Setting her coffee cup on the counter for a moment, she signed, maybe you can help me figure this out?

Eleanor nodded grimly, and once they were outside, snitched a drag off Vanessa's cigarette. Looking up, she caught Vanessa's slightly anxious signing, Won't Gil kick my ass for corrupting his mother?

I'm a big girl. I make my own decisions. Working in art galleries? I've probably seen and done things that would straighten his hair, the older woman signed back, almost with a haughty air. That's Helen, in case you didn't figure that part out.

I was afraid of that, Vanessa took a deep pull on her coffee. This was a discussion that was going to take reinforcements. She just heard that the family was in town and tracked Gil down? For what purpose?

She said she wanted to see 'her' son, even in sign language there was no mistaking the disdain in her tone. She looked ready to spit. But she attacked Gil first, instead. I can't watch him deal with her. I know I should, for my son, but I just... For far too long, I had to sit back and keep my opinions to myself, and let him figure it out for himself, she snitched another drag off the cigarette. I think I'm going to stay out here, she finally decided.

Vanessa nodded and stepped back indoors where voices were slowly and steadily rising again.

Wading into the middle, as was her habit, she fixed her eyes on Helen. "What are you here for?"

"I want to talk to Aaron. He's my son. It's my right." Her voice was growing sharp.

"It's your _right_ to invade someone else's home? You may have missed it, but Aaron's a grown man now. He gets to make that decision, not you," Vanessa started. "Now, if you're here to see Aaron, why are you attacking Gil?"

The woman had the nerve to get indignant, and Vanessa almost found herself laughing. "That Goddam dead beat left us flat!" she glared at Gil, who was sitting on the couch with his head in his hands as if warding off a headache (which made Vanessa thoughts flicker briefly to whether or not he'd remembered to pack his medication). "And now he thinks he gets to step in and be some kind of hero? It isn't like I didn't try to provide role models for him when he was growing up, you know --"

That appeared to be all Aaron's patience would stand. "Are you defective?" Aaron started in, shaking with anger. "You think you're some kind of saint?"

"I did everything on my own --" she started.

Aaron snorted. "Yeah. You and the multitude of 'uncles' you brought home. And all the drinking and the drugs? What role did that play in being a parent? Was I that hard to deal with?"

"So I should live like a nun because I have a kid?" she shot back. "Just like always, you make it out to be so much more than it was, trying to get everyone to feel bad for you."

"Yeah, Helen. All those times you left me for the weekend were to toughen me up. And how about the time 'uncle' Bob beat me with a belt? Or that 'uncle' who came at you with a knife and stalked you? Have I just been talking to the wrong people? Is all this a normal part of childhood, and I didn't realize it? I guess every kid gets burned with cigarettes. But only by the 'uncles' who molest them, right? That's how they show you they _really_ care --"

Aaron cut himself short; it was the most that any of them had ever heard him speak about his childhood. Vanessa flopped into the wing back chair by the fireplace as if she'd received a physical blow, suddenly feeling every ounce of coffee she'd had churning at her gut. All she could do was gape at the young man she'd come to think of as one of her own -- as close to a child as she'd ever get. Ruth had much the same expression on her face, and Aaron helped her find a chair. In the silence, Gil looked up at Helen, and Vanessa couldn't untangle the emotions behind those blue eyes. She did know one thing: if Gil Grissom had it in him to hit a woman, he'd have done so right then.

"That's not how it happened and you know it," he growled. "You _lied_ to me. You told me there was no baby. That you got rid of _it_," he was throwing her own words back in her face in the most dreadful, quiet voice that Vanessa had ever heard in her life. "And here he is. And you could have found me any time. So you _chose_ to torture him, for what? Who were you trying to get back at? Me? Aaron? The world at large? Do you know how fucked up that is?"

Vanessa was finding her equilibrium again, and she didn't have _any _qualms about hitting the woman.

"I can't believe you," Helen spat at him, "feeding him such a line of bullshit. What other smoke have you been blowing up his ass about me?"

Gil let go of a short bark of laughter that was totally devoid of humor, "what do you mean, bullshit? He was there for all of it. Sounds to me like its time he heard some of the truth, although he'd put a great deal of that together for himself before he came to Vegas. He's smarter than you ever gave him credit for, Helen," Vanessa was beginning to feel a little disturbed by his tone of voice, which, if anything, had only gotten quieter.

"Well, you certainly weren't exactly 'daddy material,' " she sniped in response. "Sometimes you just do what you have to do to get by."

"What part of that includes lying to me? Cutting me out? You certainly got to try your hand at the 'mommy' thing. I assure you that with your rate of success, if I could, I'd keep you from ever getting within five hundred feet of him again."

"Lying about what?" Her voice went up another notch.

"As always…about everything," finally, his voice was going up again. "You lied about running around with other men. And when I caught you, flat out _caught_ you, you said it was the first and last time. Of course, that turned out to be bullshit when I got home early and caught you on _our_ couch with another man. Like you lied through your teeth every goddam time you told me you loved me. And now, I find out twenty-three years too late that you lied about our baby, too. How can you deny _any_ of this now?"

In close to three years, Vanessa had been there for Gil through a lot of rough nights, migraines, frustrations...and she'd never seen him this angry. Ever. All she could think as she stood up, again stepping between them was that it was time to stop this before it escalated.

"That's enough," she kept her voice calm although she wasn't sure how. She looked at Aaron. "Aaron, have you said what you need to?"

"So now you take your cues from this little tramp?" she fired at Aaron.

Ruth sucked a breath through her teeth while Aaron and Gil stepped toward Helen. Again, Gil was deathly quiet, "no one insults her like that." Aaron was right behind his father.

"It's the truth, isn't it? Shacking up for four years? Took over mothering my own son because he fed her a line of 'pity me' bullshit? A woman who's been arrested? A woman who spends her time with delinquents? This is ridiculous!" she huffed, "you have a gold-digging floozy right under your roof, Gil Grissom, and you don't even see it!" she screamed, one octave away from screeching.

Aaron had stepped in front of his father, "what do you know about her? Where did you find out?" he was advancing on her, causing her to take a few steps backwards. "You don't have a clue. I've seen her put herself through hell without a second thought or a backward glance, for him," he took another step forward. "She didn't even _know_ me and she was helping me make a life for myself and protecting me." Another step and his voice went up another notch. "There isn't a horror on this planet she wouldn't face down for him."

Vanessa stood there, utterly dumbstruck, and trying really hard not to get all misty eyed at their defense of her character.

It was Gil's turn. "Do you know _why_ she was arrested?"

She stepped forward again, "who gives a shit? They don't arrest people for nothing. You should know that."

"She was arrested over twenty five years ago for taking part in an anti-Apartheid protest that got out of hand. She stepped between an officer and the young man he was going to club." His voice was still too quiet. "Do you understand the work she does?"

"Whatever, Gil. She wants you for your money -- why don't you get that?"

"She works with the people who need it. She could have made a bundle from the union contract she drafted for the lab, but she didn't. I've rarely seen people at my own lab put in the kind of hours she does, with as little reward as she gets. And she gets up, every day, and keeps doing what needs to be done."

Vanessa had to leave 'misty' behind a little ways; never in her life had she been so stunned, or felt so…she wasn't sure what the words were. Loved? Important? Warm? Fuzzy? Baffled? Baffled was a big one on the list, she thought, as she fought tears with a soft sniffle.

"She's one of the strongest, most courageous people I have ever known, and I won't sit idly by and let you insult her. I don't think that Aaron is interested in discussing anything further, so I would suggest you leave. Quickly."

She snorted, "And when did you get so open about things?"

"When I found someone who was worth being open about," he told her and turned his back.

Straight to hell with misty. The game was officially over, and Vanessa had lost, giving in to a loud snuff that broke Gil's concentration on the argument and focused his attention on her. He pulled her into a warm hug. "I'm so sorry," he whispered into her hair. "She had no right to say that."

"She can go fuck herself running," she started.

"And if anyone could," he mumbled a little bitterly.

"As I was saying," she snuffed into his shoulder. "She can go straight to hell. It takes more than a couple names to reduce me to bits," she snuffled again.

"I realize I probably shouldn't have noticed," he told her softly, "but if you aren't upset by Helen, then why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying," she snuffled again.

Vanessa felt his shoulders twitch as he bit back a chuckle.

"Okay. I'm a little...touched. You really think all that stuff about me?" Double snuff.

"Of course I do," he mumbled. "We all do."

"Thank you," she replied, unable to think of a better response. "And I _am_ upset. I'm upset for Aaron. And I'm upset for you." Cautiously, she looked back at Aaron, who was sitting on the arm of the couch, his demeanor having turned palpably frosty.

"She really has you by the nuts, doesn't she, Gil?" Helen asked tightly. Then she looked at Aaron. "You, too. The two of you are ridiculous."

Aaron seemed to have turned into a block of ice -- cold and immovable. He looked right at the woman who, by accident of biology, happened to be his mother. "Helen, I think you should leave."

"What the hell are you talking about? I haven't seen you in, how many years? Aren't you the least bit curious about what's been happening?" she tried plastering a hurt look on her face.

"Not really. I know all I ever need to. You're toxic, Helen. You poison everything you touch. Everything about you is contaminated…your excuses, your lies, your people, your habits. It's taken me this long to adjust to the idea that I have a real family. I won't let you kill that. Now go before I ask Eleanor and Ruth to call the police to have you removed," he paused to chuckle. "I know that isn't much of a threat with your already extensive relations with the town's law enforcement, so think of it this way. You can leave willingly, or be dragged off. Ultimately, it's up to you; I'm giving you a chance to make one right choice in your entire life..." Aaron let his last statement hang.

There was a resounding slam as the door closed behind her, and that was all Vanessa knew of her leaving.

**Ta-da:) **


End file.
